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CHIQUITA 




















































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“Chiquita was lifted up by two powerful arms, taken into the 
waiting automobile , and rushed out of the city before she 
had time to realize what had happened to her ."— 

Page 49 






CHIQUITA 

AND 

A MOTHER’S 
HEART 

(TWO STORIES) 


By 

HENRIETTE EUGENIE DELAMARE 

w 

Author of “Her Heart’s Desire,” “The Adventures of 
Four Young Americans,” “Nellie Kelly,” “Ronald’s 
Mission ,” “The Little Ambassadors,” etc. 



PHILADELPHIA 
H. L. Kilnbb & Co. 
PUBLISHERS 















Copyright, 1923, by 
H. L. Kilner & Co. 



©C1A759688^ N 

NOV -3 1923-7 


M * 



This interesting story appeared in the “Young 
Catholic Messenger” some years ago, and was 
so successful that the author consented to have 
it brought out in book form. 


Chiquita 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I 

Motherless . 

. 9 

II 

In Her Peaceful Convent Home, 

. 17 

III 

A Snake in the Grass. 

, 29 

IV 

The Fowler’s Net.. 

. 39 

V 

Caught in the Meshes. 

49 

VI 

A Brilliant Debut. 

, 58 

VII 

Motherless Once More. 

, 63 

VIII 

Little Bridget and Her Friend... . 

, 74 

IX 

Bring Forth the Best Robe. 

, 83 

X 

Found at Last. 

, 91 


A Mother’s Heart 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I 

Back to the Fold. 

. 105 

II 

A Bitter Humiliation. 

.116 

III 

Mary’s Atonement . 

. 128 

IV 

The Crimson Sunshade. 

. 139 

V 

A Joyful Day. 

. 150 

VI 

The Church Tower. 

. 163 

VII 

New Schoolfellows. 

. 173 

VIII 

The Fruit of the Tree. 

. 184 

IX 

Forbidden Fruit .... 

. 195 

X 

Sorrow Turned to Joy. 

.207 















































•• 



















Chiquita 

I 

MOTHERLESS 

“ Sister, I know how anxious you always are 
to help God’s forsaken little ones, so I am going 
to ask you to take charge of this poor, motherless 
child,” said kind Father Harris, one of the Jesuit 
Fathers of Santa Benedicta, as he led into the 
Convent parlor a pale, half-starved looking little 
Spanish girl of about four; strikingly beautiful 
in spite of her ragged garments, disheveled hair, 
and tear-stained face. 

“Certainly, Father! I will take her as sent to 
us by God Himself, and she will find the love of 
many mothers here. Won’t you come to me, 
dear?” added Mother Superior, in her soft, caress¬ 
ing voice, as she held out her arms to the little 
girl, who only clung more desperately to Father 
Harris, and hid her face on his shoulder. 

“Poor baby!” he exclaimed, “I’m afraid you 
will find her very wild and shy, for I found her 
in a lonely hut, far up on the mountains, alone 
9 


10 CHIQUITA 

with her dying mother, and she doesn’t know a 
word of English.” 

“How beautiful she is! I can say it safely, as 
she does not understand me,” said Mother An* 
nunciata with a smile. “She does not look like 
the children of those poor Mexicans.” 

“No; her mother was a Castilian, and evidently 
a refined woman of good family. So much I 
could gather, but she was so near death when I 
finally reached her, that I was only just in time 
to give her all the last Sacraments, which she 
received very fervently. Afterwards, she tried 
very hard to explain to me something about her 
family, but her speech was almost gone, and with 
my imperfect knowledge of Spanish, all I could 
make out was that she was most anxious that 
her husband, a Spanish gentleman, should not 
get hold of the child. There seemed to have been 
some fearful tragedy in the poor young mother’s 
life, and she had escaped here to hide with her 
child, I presume.” 

“How did you happen to discover her in time?” 

“I never would have done so by myself. Some 
workmen, belonging to the Water Company, 
found the two poor creatures almost starving 
and did what they could for them, though they 
couldn’t understand a word they said. It is 
wonderful what real charity and grandeur there 
is in some of those poor Irish laborers. They 


MOTHERLESS 


11 


could see the woman was dying, and one of them 
made out that she was entreating them to send 
for ‘El Padre.’ She kept calling for him, making 
the sign of the Cross and clasping her hands, 
and they understood that she was longing for 
the last Sacraments. So one of them lost a whole 
day’s work and risked ‘getting fired,’ as he ex¬ 
pressed it, in order to ride down a number of 
miles to come and fetch me. And that for a per¬ 
fect stranger.” 

Sister’s eyes were moist. “God does not allow 
Himself to be outdone in generosity. He will 
reward him a hundredfold,” she said softly. 

“He has already begun to do so, for we talked 
much, and as we rode up there together, I found 
out he had been leading a reckless life for many 
years. He is a thoroughly good fellow at heart, 
though, and took the opportunity of making a 
truly penitent confession. He has promised to 
keep straight, and I believe he will, for he was 
much impressed by this poor lonely woman’s 
peaceful death. She entrusted her little one to 
me, and seemed intensely grateful when I said I 
would have her brought up in a convent. God 
was indeed merciful to the poor soul, for a little 
more than a quarter of an hour after I had 
reached her, she passed away.” 

While they were talking, Mother Annunciata 
had been smiling to the little girl; gently strok- 


12 


CHIQUITA 


ing the hair back from her face and encouraging 
her in every way she could think of, and now, 
stooping over her, she held out her arms, mur¬ 
muring softly in Spanish: “Come to your new 
mother, darling Chiquita.” 

At the sound of that name, the child lifted up 
her head and looked at the nun with an inquir¬ 
ing, wistful expression in her wondrously beau¬ 
tiful dark eyes, while a faint smile crept about 
the sensitive lips. 

“It is strange/’ said Father Harris, “that you 
should have been inspired to call her Chiquita. 
That was evidently her mother’s pet name for 
her, though she told me the child had been bap¬ 
tized Esperanza. For the life of me, I could not 
catch her family name. I don’t feel at all sure 
she wished me to know it.” 

“Mamma! I want mamma!” cried the child in 
Spanish, as she looked appealingly up at the 
Mother, and then burst into tears once more. 

“Don’t cry, poor Chiquita; your mama is in 
the beautiful Heaven, with the dear Jesus. But, 
you shall go to her some day, if you will be good 
and come with me now.” 

The Mother’s Spanish was very imperfect, but 
the child understood the promise, and very un¬ 
willingly let go of her first kind friend and 
allowed herself to be taken into the nun’s arms. 
Almost immediately, however, she stretched out 


MOTHERLESS 


13 


her hands towards Father Harris again, scream¬ 
ing to go back to him. 

“She is so frightened, just like some poor little 
caged bird, isn’t she?” he said pityingly. “I had 
all the trouble in the world to get her away 
from her dead mother. It was the most pathetic 
thing I ever saw.” Then he added firmly in 
Spanish: “I must go now, Chiquita, but I will 
come back soon, very soon, if you are good with 
Mother,” and so saying, he hurried out of the 
room, leaving her to the kind nuns, who did all 
in their power to soothe and comfort her. 

By dint of infinite patience, they managed to 
bathe her, comb out her beautiful, curly, dark 
hair, which hung in masses about her shoulders, 
and dressed her in a clean but simple little pink 
frock, in which she looked as pretty as a picture. 
When dinner time came, they led her into the 
refectory and sat her between two Spanish-speak¬ 
ing pupils, to whom they granted the privilege 
of talking with her during the meal. This per¬ 
mission was certainly not abused, for the little 
newcomer was too scared at the sight of so many 
strange faces, to answer a single word. She had 
for many months been living in complete solitude 
with her mother, her only other companions being 
the squirrels and other wild creatures of the 
woods, and her great, soft, dark eyes looked 
around her with terror, like some poor wounded 


14 


CHIQUITA 


deer at bay. The other boarders were wild with 
excitement and admiration for the little one, 
whom they thought the most beautiful baby 
child they had ever seen. 

“She’s so beautiful, she’s like pictures of the 
Infant Jesus, isn’t she, Sister ?” exclaimed one 
of the older girls. 

“Yes, she is certainly a picture of a child,” 
said the Sister almost sadly, as she gazed at her 
exquisitely chiselled features, her beautiful rosy 
lips, the delicate carnation on her cheeks toning 
perfectly with her clear olive complexion and 
dark hair. Then her eyes! Were there ever such 
great, lustrous, speaking eyes as this poor little 
waifs? Eyes that seemed to tell of all the 
passion, and longing of her sensitive child’s soul, 
and which moved you as strangely in spite of 
yourself. She was beautiful even when she cried, 
a rare thing with the very loveliest, and when a 
faint smile lit up her mobile face, it seemed as 
if one were looking at some exquisite vision of 
a child saint. 

“I trust she may never have to go out into 
the world,” added Sister Aloysia, anxiously; 
“that wondrous beauty of hers might lead her 
into endless trouble, poor child. Mind you don’t 
speak to her about it even now, Genevieve, for 
she is quite old enough to become vain.” 

“Well, but she doesn’t understand a word we 


MOTHERLESS 15 

say, Sister, so we couldn’t make her vain, yet 
a while.” 

“She may not understand your words,” said 
Sister with a smile, “but she understands your 
looks and exclamations of admiration, I feel sure, 
though her sorrow about her mother is too great, 
for her to care about anything else today, poor 
wee mite.” 

It was an intense relief to the nervous child 
when evening came, and a kind Sister took her 
up to the dormitory, before any of the others, 
and tucked her up safely in a cosy little white 
bed with curtains, that shielded her from the 
gaze of all those terrifying strangers. All the 
events of the last two days had excited her too 
much, for her to be able to sleep, however, and 
now that she no longer felt so frightened, the 
longing for her mother came upon her worse 
than ever, and for hours the Sister in charge 
heard her sobbing broken-heartedly. In vain, 
she went again and again, to try and comfort 
her; in vain, she fetched dear Mother Superior, 
to try her soothing powers; nothing could calm 
the little one. The kind nuns became quite 
anxious, for she had cried herself into a state 
of feverish excitement, and her cries for “Mama, 
Mama!” were pitiful to hear. 

At last, one of the music teachers, a young 
novice, who had been a member of a large family 


16 


CHIQUITA 


and had sung many a restless baby brother or 
sister to sleep, bethought herself of this remedy, 
and asked Mother Superior’s permission to sing 
something. This was readily granted, and in 
her full, rich voice, the young nun began the 
“Ave Maris Stella.” Almost instantly the child 
stopped crying, fixed her lustrous dark eyes on 
the singer with a look of joy, and gradually grew 
calmer and calmer as the singing proceeded. At 
last, she fell peacefully to sleep, with her little 
thin hand in that of the young novice. 

The Sisters had now found a way to little 
Chiquita’s heart and confidence. That way was 
music, which the child loved passionately, and 
which made a wonderful impression on her sen¬ 
sitive nature. With it, one might soothe or ex¬ 
cite her, make her joyful as a little bird or sad 
unto tears, and, as Mother Superior looked at the 
lovely child sleeping so peacefully on her little 
white bed that night, she thought with dread, 
of all that life might have in store for one at 
once so gifted and so impressionable, and she 
almost wished God would take her, to join her 
dear mother, while she was still a sweetly inno¬ 
cent little child. 


II 


IN HER PEACEFUL CONVENT HOME 

The taming of “our little wild bird,” as Father 
Harris called Chiquita, took some time; for every¬ 
thing was so new and strange to the little one, 
and the confinement of city life was very trying 
to a child, who had been used to roaming at will 
in the woods. Besides this, the fact of her only 
knowing a foreign language, of course, made 
things harder for her at first, and for several 
weeks she was constantly crying and beseeching 
her friends, to take her back to her “carita 
Madre.” Little by little, however, the love and 
kindness that were showered on her, won her 
heart; the smile came back to her rosy lips, and 
she would go about singing snatches of Spanish 
songs in her wonderfully clear, silvery, child’s 
voice. She proved to be very intelligent, and 
soon learned to speak English as well as any 
little American girl. Much younger than any of 
the other boarders, younger even than the day 
scholars, she soon became the pet and plaything 
of the whole school. Bright, vivacious, warm¬ 
hearted, her rippling laughter was contagious, 
IT 


18 


CHIQUITA 


and she was like a ray of sunshine in the quiet 
convent. In vain, the Mother and Sisters tried 
to have her called Esperanza; to every one from 
the very first she was Chiquita, “little one,” and 
the name stuck to her as long as she remained 
at the convent. 

But winsome and lovable as she was, Chiquita 
had many faults. Sensitive and proud, she was 
passionate, even rebellious at times, and she had 
an inordinate love of praise and admiration. She 
needed the most gentle and tactful management, 
for she resented the very slightest injustice; and, 
if reproved, would have fits of sorrow or remorse 
almost amounting to despair. Everything about 
her seemed extreme. If not merry as a bird, 
she would be deeply despondent; if she loved, it 
was with passionate devotion; if she disliked, 
it was vehemently. She would have fits of deeply 
earnest piety, then again at times she seemed 
utterly indifferent to everything. As for music, 
it exercised over her a strange fascination, and 
would move her to joy and sorrow, or strange 
restlessness and excitement. 

From quite a baby-child, she had a wonder¬ 
fully keen ear and sweet voice; and as the years 
passed, these gifts did but increase; and the 
music teachers could not resist the temptation 
of making her sing solos, at their entertainments 
and church festivals, so that she was soon known 


IN HER CONVENT HOME 


19 


in the whole city as the child prodigy of the 
convent. In spite of the Sisters’ efforts, many 
echoes of the lavish praise and admiration be¬ 
stowed upon her, reached her ears through her 
admiring friends among the day scholars, and 
filled her foolish little heart with joy and pride. 

The person of all others, whom she loved and 
revered and who had most influence over her was 
Father Harris. A word of praise, or encourage¬ 
ment, from him made her happy for whole days; 
while, if he reproved her ever so gently, her 
sorrow was quite pitiful. If in one of her pas¬ 
sionate or rebellious moods, a threat to tell 
Father Harris, or a reminder that he would be 
grieved to hear of her bad behavior, would sub¬ 
due her in a minute, and she would then make 
every effort to conquer herself. Yet, though he 
was deeply interested in her, the young priest 
was careful, from the first, not to show any 
preference for his little protege. Deeply loved 
by all who knew him, he was, however, so ascetic 
and spiritual that no one, however often they 
saw him, could ever forget his saintly priesthood, 
or think of him as an ordinary human being. 
He was always kind, deeply, truly kind, and 
could be very friendly and sympathetic; yet there 
was an atmosphere of saintliness about him, 
which made one feel that he was one of God’s 
anointed ones, to be revered as well as loved. 


20 


CHIQUITA 


After Father Harris, Chiquita loved Mother 
Annunciata, the nun who had first received her, 
and who was Superioress of the Convent; and 
Sister Frances, a gifted musician, whose artistic 
temperament helped her to understand the little 
foreigner’s over-sensitive nature. She had also 
many friendships among the girls of the school, 
and besides her love of music she had a pas¬ 
sionate love of birds, flowers, and all the beauties 
of nature. Then, when she grew a little older, 
her love of dress and finery began to show itself. 
The Sisters gave her little opportunity for in¬ 
dulging her vanity; but she had the knack of 
placing a flower or a bow in the most becoming 
manner, and looked charming in the very simplest 
things. Her comrades, by their petting and ad¬ 
miration, encouraged the little girl’s vanity; and 
the Sisters were often sadly anxious, when they 
thought of the dangers life might have in store 
for their little favorite; and did all in their power 
to train her in such deeply religious ideas, that 
she would have strength to conquer her tempta¬ 
tions. 

When she was ten years old she was allowed 
to make her first Holy Communion. Father Har¬ 
ris himself prepared the class that year, and 
Chiquita profited so well by his instructions that 
there was a marked change in her, and her fervor 
and piety filled the Sisters with joy. She had 


IN HER CONVENT HOME 


21 


a very special devotion to Our Lady, and was 
never happier than when allowed to decorate her 
blessed Mother’s Altar, or carry her banner in 
the procession. But her greatest devotion of all 
was to the Blessed Sacrament, and even the nuns 
did not seem to be able to realize with greater 
intensity or reverence our dear Lord’s presence 
in the Blessed Sacrament. So, in the peaceful 
life of the convent, Chiquita was helped to strug¬ 
gle against her faults, and grew in the love of 
God; and on the whole she was a very happy 
and lovable little girl. 

She had made her first Holy Communion on 
the Feast of Corpus Christi, and that same year 
she was allowed to help decorate the Chapel, and 
make the Crib for Christmas. All this was a 
labor of love for her, but what filled her with 
still greater delight was, that she was allowed 
at the Midnight Mass, not only to take a solo in 
the “Adeste Fidelis,” but to sing as an offertory 
the beautiful hymn “Hail! Holy Night.” As she 
stood at the front of the organ loft with her 
white veil framing her beautiful face, so earnest 
in its heartfelt devotion, she looked like some 
young virgin saint in ecstasy, and her exquisite 
voice rang out rich and pure in the little convent 
Chapel, and moved many people to tears. It 
seemed as if one of the Angels from Heaven had 


22 


CHIQUITA 


come down, to sing the praises of the Child Jesus 
and call souls to love and praise Him. 

Parents of pupils and benefactors of the con¬ 
vent were allowed to assist at this Midnight 
Mass, and among those present was a rich maiden 
lady, a prominent member of society, but a luke¬ 
warm Catholic. Together with many others, she 
had instinctively turned round to look at the 
singer, and she was seized with admiration and 
love for the beautiful little girl. She was wealthy 
and lonely, why shouldn’t she adopt this gifted 
child? What an attraction she would be at her 
receptions, this child prodigy! Miss Windlam 
could think of nothing else as the Mass pro¬ 
ceeded, and was still more struck with Chiquita 
when, with clasped hands and rapt expression, 
the child passed her, as she followed her com¬ 
panions to the altar rails and back. Not only 
was her voice angelic, thought the wealthy lady, 
but she was angelically beautiful, even in her 
present plain clothes. What would it be, when 
she had dressed her up in silk and satin according 
to the latest fashion! 

But Miss Windlam was not the only one to be 
struck with the little singer that night. Some 
enthusiastic admirer put a high-flown account 
of her, and of her vocal powers, in the paper 
the next day with the heading: “An angel fills 
convent chapel with floods of melody on Christ- 


IN HER CONVENT HOME 


23 


mas night.” In spite of the fact that the Sisters 
strictly forbade any newspapers to be brought 
into the convent without their sanction, one of 
the day boarders managed to smuggle one in, and 
showed this notice to Chiquita. At first she 
refused to read it, but the temptation was too 
great, and she was punished for yielding to it, 
by losing the joy and peace of mind which had 
been hers ever since her First Communion, and 
feeling once more in a whirl of excited vanity 
and foolish day dreams of future greatness. 

On Christmas day, Miss Windlam came to call 
on Mother Annunciata, and began by making 
her a generous donation for the convent; then 
she burst out in extravagant praise of Chiquita’s 
beauty and exquisite singing, and tried to ques¬ 
tion the Mother on the child’s parentage and 
prospects. Finding that she could obtain but 
little information from the Superior, who con¬ 
stantly tried to turn the conversation, she finally 
spoke of her desire to adopt the child, and bring 
her up in every luxury as her own daughter. 
To her intense surprise, so far from joyfully 
accepting the offer, Mother Annunciata answered 
gravely, that the child had been entrusted to their 
care by a friend, and that she had neither the 
power nor wish to give her up. Miss Windlam 
was not used to having her wishes thwarted, and 
tried all her powers of eloquence and persuasion 


24 


CHIQUITA 


to make Reverend Mother change her mind. 
Finding it almost impossible to get rid of her 
troublesome visitor, the Superior finally prom¬ 
ised to think over the matter, and consult the 
child’s guardian. 

It happened that Father Harris was absent 
for the next few days, and while awaiting his 
return, Mother Annunciata gave orders that 
Chiquita should not be allowed to practice any 
more solos for the present, and the child, who 
had been looking forward eagerly to having more 
triumphs on the Feasts of the Circumcision and 
Epiphany, was intensely disappointed. She 
would not have felt it so much a few weeks ago, 
though it had always been a great joy to her to 
sing, but since she’d seen that flattering notice 
in the paper, her childish head was full of dreams 
of success and grandeur. To make matters worse, 
Miss Windlam had made no secret of her wishes 
or her interview with the Reverend Mother, of 
which a very false account was soon spread about 
the town, and, through one of the day pupils, 
reached Chiquita’s ears. 

The child was furious against the kind Su¬ 
perior, accusing her not only of wishing to pre¬ 
vent her from singing God’s praises, but of trying 
to keep her in poverty and obscurity all her life, 
when she might be wealthy and happy, and have 
every opportunity of shining in the world. When 


IN HER CONVENT HOME 


25 


Mother Annunciata tried to gently reason with 
her, she so far forgot herself as to burst into 
passionate reproaches and accusations, and fin¬ 
ished by saying that if she is not allowed to sing, 
she would run away, and go to Miss Windlam. 
The kind nun was deeply distressed and hurt, 
but she answered quietly that the decision did 
not lie with her, but with Father Harris, and 
that, if she had answered as she did, it was 
because she had never dreamed that Chiquita 
would be ungrateful enough to wish to leave her 
loving mothers for a total stranger. The child 
felt the justice of the reproof and became more 
subdued, though still very tearful and morose. 

At last, to the Sisters’ intense relief, Father 
Harris returned, and they were able to tell him 
the whole affair and speak of their ever-growing 
anxiety as to Chiquita’s future. He was almost 
as disturbed as they had been, and quite de¬ 
termined not to give the child into the keeping 
of such a worldly and unreliable woman as Miss 
Windlam, but as to the child’s singing he thought 
it would be unwise to put a stop to it alto¬ 
gether. 

“It is evidently a great and wonderful gift 
which God had given her,” he said solemnly, 
“and I do not think we should insist on the 
child’s putting her talent in a napkin and hiding 
it away. I admit it is a dangerous gift, but 


26 


CHIQUITA 


music is in lier nature, and you could no more 
stop it in her than you could check the flow of 
a mighty river or prevent a lark from singing. 
All we can do is to endeavor to make the child 
feel that her voice is no merit of hers, nothing 
she need be vain about, but a precious talent 
which she should employ for God’s glory, and 
of which He will ask her a very strict account. 
I know for a fact that a man who had not been to 
the Sacraments for years, was so touched by her 
singing and her devotion on Christmas night, 
that he went to confession the very next morning. 
She can therefore make it a great weapon for 
good. Let me speak to her, Mother, and I think 
I will be able to make her feel how badly she 
has behaved to you, and how careful she must be 
against giving way to vanity.” 

Father Harris had a long interview with 
Chiquita, and spoke to her more severely than 
he ever had done before. He began by upbraiding 
her with her vanity and ingratitude to the good 
Sisters, and especially to Mother Annunciata, 
whose heart she had so wounded by her heartless 
words, after all the devoted love and care which 
had been bestowed on her for over six years. 

“If it had not been for Mother’s kindness, you, 
a poor little homeless waif, would have had to 
be sent to some orphanage, to be brought up on 
public charity. Here you have had every ad- 


IN HER CONVENT HOME 


27 


vantage of education and training; you have 
been petted and shielded from every humiliation, 
and this is your return for six years of devoted 
love. You wish to leave all your friends to go 
and live with a rich woman you know nothing 
about, and whose chief desire is to make use of 
you to attract people to her social affairs. Go 
then, if you so wish it,” he added, rising as if to 
leave the room. “Go—but we will wash ou.r 
hands of you forever. We love our Chiquita, 
but we will have no wish ever to see the amateur 
performer, Miss Esperanza Windlam.” 

“Oh! Father, Father! Forgive me!” sobbed 
Chiquita, falling on her knees and stretching her 
hands imploringly towards him. “I see now how 
wicked I have been. Oh! do not cast me away; 
let me be your little Chiquita again, and I prom¬ 
ise I will never be so wicked or rebellious again. 
I will beg Mother to forgive me; I will never 
sing again if you wish it.” 

“No, I do not wish it. Get up, Chiquita,” 
he added more gently, “and I will forgive you 
this time, and pray to God to forgive you your 
sinful conduct of the past three days. Now sit 
down, I want to talk to you, not as to a baby, 
but to a big girl, old enough to feel and under¬ 
stand what I have to say.” 

Then gently, earnestly, he spoke to her of this 
great gift she had received from God, not through 


28 


CHIQUITA 


the slightest merit of her own, but simply through 
His loving kindness. He showed her what great 
good she might do if she used it only for His 
glory, and remembered to take none of the credit 
of it to herself; and how she would forfeit her 
peace of mind and conscience, and finally lose 
her soul, if she allowed herself to give way to 
pride and love of the pleasures and vanities of 
the world. He decided that her singing of solos 
should always be a reward of good behavior, 
and that in punishment for her bad behavior 
that week, she should not sing at all for a month. 

After the Father had gone, Chiquita sought 
out Mother Annunciata, and with bitter tears 
and passionate expressions of love and repent¬ 
ance, entreated her to forgive and forget her un¬ 
grateful conduct. 

“I forgive you fully, my Chiquita,” said the 
Superior gently, “but I will find it difficult to 
forget the way you spoke to me the other day. 
You wounded me to the heart, so deeply, that my 
sorrow and anxiety about you have caused me 
to shed many bitter tears before the Blessed 
Sacrament.” 

Chiquita wept more bitterly than ever, broken¬ 
hearted, to think how gravely she had pained the 
dear Mother she deeply loved; and she so begged 
and entreated, that at last she made her promise 
to try and forget her unjust, ungrateful words. 


Ill 


A SNAKE IN THE GRASS 

Chiquita had been very truly penitent for her 
outburst of naughtiness, and she tried to make 
amends for it by being particularly obedient and 
docile during the next few months. She missed 
no opportunity of showing her affection and grat¬ 
itude to the Sisters, especially to Mother An- 
nunciata, and she was more than ever devout to 
the Blessed Sacrament and to Our Lady. She 
earnestly strove to conquer her love of admira¬ 
tion, and to prepare herself worthily for the re¬ 
ception of Confirmation which the Bishop would 
administer in the early spring. As a reward for 
her good behavior she was allowed to sing solos 
again, and on Easter Sunday her soul was so full 
of happiness that it seemed to vibrate in her 
every note and to fill the hearts of her listeners. 
So things had been going more and more smoothly 
and happily for more than a year, and the 
Sisters were full of thankfulness about her, when 
as unexpectedly as a clap of thunder in a clear 
sky came the news that Father Harris had been 
ordered off to another mission. Not only the 
29 


30 


CHIQUITA 


Nuns, but the whole congregation of St. Bene- 
dicta knew this to be a terrible loss, and the 
good Father himself felt the parting very bit¬ 
terly, though he was, by far, too devoted to God’s 
duties to think of murmuring or objecting. 
Wherever God called him he was willing to go, 
however distasteful it might be to him. 

As for Chiquita, she was simply wild with 
grief, and prayed unceasingly that something 
might happen to prevent her beloved director and 
friend from being taken from her. When, a few 
days later, Father Harris came to say good-bye 
to the Sisters and children in whom he had taken 
an interest, he was quite distressed to see Chi- 
quita’s pale, tear-stained face and the look of 
despairing sorrow in her dark eyes. 

“Chiquita,” he said kindly, taking her little 
cold hand in his, “you must not grieve like this, 
but remember that God is calling me to a great 
work for souls, and help me all you can by your 
prayers. Promise me, dear child, that you will 
persevere in your efforts to be good, that you will 
be faithful to your religious duties and to your 
love for the Blessed Sacrament.” 

“Oh!” moaned Chiquita in a low, despairing 
voice, “I shall never be able to be good without 
you to help me! I feel so wild, so bad at times, 
no one but you knows how to make me better.” 

“Nonsense, child, any priest could guide you 


A SNAKE IN THE GRASS 


31 


just as well as I’ve been able to do. Remember, 
too, that I shall be praying for you every day 
of my life, and I will write to you often, very 
often, and do all in my power to help you. Then, 
you will have dear, kind Mother Annunciata 
and all the Sisters, and Father Burke, and the 
Father who is to take my place will take an 
interest in you. Besides, best of all, will you 
not have our dear Lord and His Blessed Mother? 
Is not their help worth a thousand times what 
mine could be?” 

But Chiquita was inconsolable, and when 
Father Harris had gone away and she could 
no longer catch a glimpse of his figure, she ran 
sobbing upstairs, and flinging herself down on 
the floor of her room, utterly refused to be com¬ 
forted. For days, and even weeks, the Sisters 
were quite anxious at her mute despair, and it 
was not until several months had passed that she 
was at all herself again. Even then she was 
often moody and fretful, restless and resentful 
to the discipline of the convent. She longed to 
roam abroad, to see woods and meadows, and 
ramble on the mountains that looked so inviting 
and beautiful from her window. She felt as if 
in prison. 

Then she would remember Father Harris’ de¬ 
sire that she should conquer herself, and a letter 
from him would give her renewed courage and 


32 


CHIQUITA 


hope, and once more they would hear her sweet 
voice as she worked about the house. 

Unfortunately, if Chiquita had many loving 
friends and admirers in the convent she had also 
several enemies, and among them one of the very 
worst kind—one of those who hide their hatred 
and malice under a cloak of friendship. This 
girl, Mazie Brown, was many years older than 
herself. She was a flashy, rather vulgar day- 
boarder, quick and intelligent, though not very 
studious, and she had for years been furiously 
jealous of Chiquita’s beauty and lovely voice, 
and of her success in her classes. At first, Mazie 
had tried by every means in her power to get 
Chiquita into trouble by her mischief making. 
She had tried to set her schoolmates against her 
by false accounts of what she had said about 
them, drawing notice to her every fit of bad 
temper, or failure to observe the rules. In spite 
of her efforts, however, she had not had much 
success, for Chiquita was too winning on the 
whole and too great a favorite for anyone to wish 
to hear anything against her—indeed, Mazie had 
only succeeded in gaining for herself a reputa¬ 
tion as a tale bearer and mischief maker. The 
Sisters mistrusted her, and only kept her in the 
school because they knew her home life to be any¬ 
thing but happy or helpful to her soul, and 
hoped to be able to influence her for good. 


A SNAKE IN THE GRASS 


33 


Finding herself unable to harm Chiquita, by 
depriving her of the good opinion of her friends, 
Mazie was base and cunning enough to deter¬ 
mine to get her into trouble by drawing her into 
sinful disobedience. In order to do this, she be¬ 
gan by flattering her constantly, pretending to 
have a devoted friendship for her, and confiding 
to her her own real or supposed troubles. Then, 
when she had thus obtained the sensitive child’s 
sympathy and put her off her guard, she began 
to try and make her discontent with her convent 
life, pitying her for having to be so “mewed up,” 
telling her of the delights of ten-cent shows, con¬ 
certs, walks with boys, etc.; and though Chiqui- 
ta’s sense of refinement shrank from the thought 
of many of these things, still Mazie’s talk left a 
certain impression on her mind. Mother An- 
nunciata once noticed the two girls sitting to¬ 
gether, and at the first opportunity, spoke to 
Chiquita and warned her to have as little as 
possible to do with Mazie, telling her she had 
good reasons for mistrusting the girl, though she 
did not add that she knew she was inclined to be 
coarse, vulgar, and lacking in truthfulness and 
a keen sense of honor. At first, Chiquita meant 
to obey the Superior’s wishes, but, little by little, 
she allowed herself to be led into having secret 
meetings with Mazie. She little knew how bit¬ 
terly she was to pay for this act of disobedience! 


34 


CHIQUITA 


The families of some of the best day-pupils 
resided quite near the convent, and in order that 
Chiquita should not be dull, she was often al¬ 
lowed to spend the afternoon with one or other of 
these girls on a Saturday. When the house was 
but a few steps off, she was allowed to go alone, 
as the Sisters trusted her completely and did not 
think that any harm could possibly happen to 
her. 

About six months after Father Harris’ depar¬ 
ture a fairly good opera company came to Santa 
Benedicta and gave several evening performances, 
and one matinee. The matinee, which was to be 
on Saturday afternoon, consisted of a representa¬ 
tion of Faust, and knowing Chiquita’s passionate 
love of music, Mazie felt that now or never was 
her opportunity for drawing the child into 
trouble. Her plan was deeply laid. She had ob¬ 
tained two of the cheapest seats, through a man 
in the employ of the theatre. The next thing 
was to get possession of Chiquita without the 
Sisters’ knowledge. She knew well enough that 
they would never allow the child to spend the 
day with her, but she also knew that a little girl 
with whom Chiquita was often allowed to go 
and play, was greedy beyond words and very weak 
of character. She therefore arranged with her 
to invite Chiquita for that afternoon, but to lend 
her to Mazie, who would in return for her oblig- 


A SNAKE IN THE GRASS 


36 


ingness give her a pound of chocolates. The child 
was of course pledged to absolute secrecy, and 
warned that the Sisters would be sure to expel 
her if they discovered her share in the plot. The 
greedy little girl consented, and only repented 
after she’d eaten the chocolates, which were not 
very good, having been bought at the ten-cent 
store. 

Chiquita, quite unconscious of impending dan¬ 
ger, started off gaily for her little friend’s house, 
and was greatly astonished to find Mazie waiting 
on the side-walk for her, all excitement over the 
delight of having arranged that they might both 
go to the opera together. She explained hastily 
that there was no harm in it, that her mother 
was going, too, that the Sisters need know nothing 
about it; and seeing Chiquita hesitate, added that 
this was most likely her one and only chance of 
ever hearing such beautiful music. 

At first, the little girl honestly tried to resist 
the temptation, though it made her heart beat 
wildly with longing to hear the music. She ar¬ 
gued that she could not be so deceitful to the Sis¬ 
ters who trusted her, that she had always heard 
theatres were dangerous, that she wouldn’t go 
without asking permission of Mother. This did 
not suit Mazie at all. She stormed at Chiquita 
for her ingratitude and want of confidence in 
her; the friend who had taken such trouble and 


36 


CHIQUITA 


gone to such expense to procure her this pleasure, 
and she exerted all her eloquence to describe the 
wondrous beauty of the opera, and the exquisite 
voices of the singers. 

At last, almost against her will, Chiquita al¬ 
lowed herself to be dragged to Mazie’s home, 
where she was dressed up in a big hat and veil, 
which very effectually disguised her, and a very 
short time afterwards she found herself in the 
gallery of the theatre where, behind the shelter 
of a friendly column, she could lift up her veil 
without any danger of being recognized. 

The opera was just beginning as they entered, 
and in a minute the child had forgotten every¬ 
thing but the beauty of the overture to which she 
was listening. But this was nothing to her de¬ 
light when the singing began. She cared nothing 
for the story, she didn’t understand it or wish 
to, but she drank in the beautiful melodies with 
rapturous delight and, little by little, the sight 
of the beautiful costumes and jewels, the en¬ 
thusiasm lavished upon the prima donna, the 
flowers thrown at her feet; all this set her soul 
in a very turmoil of excitement and longing to 
become a great singer herself, to win all this 
praise and admiration. Was she not beautiful? 
Far more beautiful than this woman in spite of 
her paint! Was not her voice as fine as hers, 
or wouldn’t it be if she was properly trained? 


A SNAKE IN THE GRASS 


37 


As long as the music lasted, she was so worked 
up that she forgot everything else, but her in¬ 
tense enjoyment and her foolish dreams of vanity 
and grandeur, but as soon as it was over and she 
found herself in the street again, she realized 
how naughty she had been and felt utterly miser¬ 
able. She hardly thanked Mazie for her treat, 
refused to touch any refreshment and hurried 
home to the convent, feeling wicked and deceitful. 
She pretended a headache and went to bed, fear¬ 
ing if she stayed downstairs she would be ques¬ 
tioned as to how she had enjoyed her afternoon. 
Mother and several of the Sisters came up one 
after the other to see what was the matter with 
her, bringing her a cup of tea, and little simple 
remedies, but their kindness only added to her 
misery. 

All night long she tossed restlessly in her 
bed; at times dreaming of theatres and jewels, 
and the intoxication of success and admiration; 
at others, remorseful and miserable, bitterly re¬ 
proaching herself for having betrayed the con¬ 
fidence placed in her, and thinking how grieved 
and shocked Father Harris would be if he knew 
of her conduct. Oh, why wasn’t he there? She 
felt that she could have told him of her sin in 
confession, but that she would not have the cour¬ 
age to write it to him. At last, towards morning, 
she resolved to take the first opportunity to con- 


38 


CHIQUITA 


fess all to Mother, without mentioning who was 
the one she had gone with. This resolution 
seemed to calm her, and just as dawn was break¬ 
ing she fell asleep, and did not wake until half¬ 
past eight the next morning, when one of the Sis¬ 
ters came to tell her to get up and dress for the 
nine o’clock Mass. Oh, what a bitter awaken¬ 
ing it was! and how Ohiquita wished that she 
could live yesterday over again! 


IV 


THE FOWLER'S NET 

In the stillness of the night and the first fervor 
of her remorse, it had seemed to Chiquita that it 
would he quite a simple thing to tell Mother all 
about her wrong-doing, and go back to her old 
life once more, as if nothing unusual had hap¬ 
pened. But, when she was up and wide awake, 
it all took a new aspect and she felt as if her 
fault was too great ever to be forgiven, and its 
consequences too far-reaching for her to be able 
to struggle against them. Though only twelve 
years old, Chiquita was wonderfully thoughtful 
and clear-sighted for so young a girl, and she 
realized keenly that she was now entirely under 
Mazie’s power, and that her so-called friend 
would most likely take a mean advantage of the 
fact. When she was with Mazie, she always 
seemed to love and admire her, but as soon as the 
girl was gone, she felt how deceitful and unre¬ 
liable she was, and was angry with herself for 
having given away to her companion’s influence 
and made a confidante of her. 

She felt this more than ever this time and, 
39 


40 


CHIQUITA 


besides, it now seemed to her that she would 
sooner die than confess her sin to Mother An- 
nunciata, or even to Father O’Lara, the successor 
of her own dear Father, who was now confessor 
of all the pupils at the convent. He was a very 
holy priest, but as severe to others as he was 
to himself, which was saying a great deal, and 
his manner, especially in the confessional, was 
stern and severe, and anything but helpful to 
so sensitive and nervous a child as Chiquita. He 
thought her over-petted and fancied it was good 
for her to be humbled and sharply rebuked for 
the slightest faults, whereas, far from helping 
her to advance, this harshness only served to 
discourage, frighten and antagonize her and, at 
this critical turning point in her life, its results 
were simply disastrous. 

What was she to do? she asked herself in de¬ 
spair. She couldn’t make up her mind to go to 
confession again, indeed the Father would refuse 
to hear her until the regulation hour on Satur¬ 
day, and she couldn’t go to Holy Communion 
with these great sins of disobedience and deceit 
on her conscience. For this day, she made an 
excuse about having broken her fast in the 
night, but she generally received her dear Lord 
several times a week, and she couldn’t find so 
plausible an excuse each time. Besides, even 
when Saturday came, she felt she’d die sooner 


THE FOWLER’S NET 


41 


than go to Father O’Lara, it seemed to make her 
sick and faint even to think of it. 

So, that wretched day passed, she hardly knew 
how, and the Sisters whispered together that she 
had one of her restless moods on her, and prayed 
earnestly for their darling, little thinking of her 
danger. In the afternoon, while sitting by her¬ 
self in the remotest part of the convent grounds, 
she had almost unconsciously burst out into one 
of the songs she had heard the prima donna sing 
the day before. She didn’t know the words, but 
she knew that they were sad; and she put such 
pathos, such wild despair in the melody, that it 
brought the tears to her eyes. 

All of a sudden she stopped, trembling with 
fright lest any of the Sisters should have heard 
her, and should wonder where she had learned 
the song. She listened with beating heart, for 
she could hear footsteps, and was much relieved 
when she ascertained that they were the steps of 
a man in the street, on the other side of the high 
wooden palings. The steps lingered though, and 
it was only when she had flown back to the con¬ 
vent like a frightened bird, that the man finally 
walked away. 

But Chiquita had fled too late, for the listener 
was no other than the manager of the Operatic 
Company, and had been spellbound at hearing 
what he declared to be a voice that would send 


42 


CHIQUITA 


the whole world wild with admiration. Could 
he get hold of the singer, train her, bring her 
out, his fortune was made! His present com¬ 
pany was mediocre and he knew it, but with 
such a prima donna as this one would be, he 
could electrify the whole musical world. And 
he must get hold of her somehow, anyhow, by 
fair means or foul. But how was he to set about 
it? 

The girl was in a convent, he’d seen that for 
himself, and, though she had been hidden from 
his sight, he knew by the voice that she must 
be quite a young girl, almost a child. He must 
make inquiries, but, must set about it very 
cautiously so as not to lose his prey, and rapid¬ 
ly, too, for he had to leave Santa Benedicta the 
next day. 

All unconscious of this danger, Chiquita went 
to bed that night and slept heavily from utter 
exhaustion; but, when she awoke the next morn¬ 
ing, it was with a miserable feeling of impending 
evil, and she was so inattentive in class that Sis¬ 
ter Alberta, her teacher, spoke to her unusually 
sharp, and Chiquita in her overstrained state 
of nerves burst into a passion of angry tears. 

At Mass, the preceding day, it had seemed to 
the child that Mazie looked at her with a mock¬ 
ingly triumphant air, but today, she was all 
honey and affection. As soon as school was out 


THE FOWLER’S NET 


43 


for recreation, she drew Chiquita to a secluded 
part of the grounds and told her that the man¬ 
ager of the Opera Company had heard her sing 
the previous day, and was quite in raptures with 
the beauty of her voice, and that he was longing 
to see her and hear her once more, and eager to 
give her a ticket for the opera that night. 

“He says you’ve a far more beautiful voice 
than that woman they all made such a fuss over 
yesterday, and when I told him you were a peach 
to look at, he was just tickled to death and said 
he’d give the world to see you. He’s waiting at 
our house now, and the Sisters won’t miss us 
for the next half hour. We can easily be back 
before the bell rings, and just think how lovely 
to hear the opera again tonight. Besides, you’ll 
get me into trouble with the manager if you don’t 
come, and he’ll most likely call on Mother and 
tell her all about Saturday.” 

Chiquita felt in a very turmoil of fear, remorse, 
vanity and longing, and at last, on Mazie’s add¬ 
ing that the Sisters were sure to know all about 
their going to the theatre, and that they might 
as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, she re¬ 
luctantly allowed herself to be dragged out of the 
day boarders’ side entrance. Running along in 
the shelter of the palings, she soon found herself, 
she hardly knew how, standing in the Brown’s 
parlor before the manager. 


44 


CHIQUITA 


It had so happened that the previous evening 
he had confided his wonderful discovery to one 
of his chorus singers, who was rooming at the 
Browns, and had heard people there talk of the 
child with the beautiful voice. He had ques¬ 
tioned Mazie that evening, and finding that she 
not only knew Chiquita, but had her in her pow¬ 
er, had introduced her to the manager. Together 
they had arranged to pay the Browns a consider¬ 
able sum of money if Mazie could put them in the 
way of gaining possession of Chiquita, without 
letting any one in the town know of the adven¬ 
ture. 

The Browns were always short of cash, besides 
which, Mazie was only too delighted to think of 
getting permanently rid of her brilliant rival; 
so she determined that nothing should prevent her 
from accomplishing her project, and was shrewd 
enough to demand a large sum of money for her 
pains. The operatic manager, Signor Altazzi, af¬ 
ter bargaining for some time, agreed to pay this 
in yearly installments, to cease the very day that 
any of Chiquita’s friends should discover her 
whereabouts. Thus, he secured the utmost dis¬ 
cretion from the Brown family. 

Signor Altazzi was beside himself with joy 
when he saw Chiquita’s beauty and graceful car¬ 
riage, and after gratifying her vanity to the full¬ 
est extent by praise of her voice, her loveliness, 


THE FOWLER’S NET 


45 


her charming manners, he offered to take her to 
Europe with him, treating her as his daughter, 
and giving her the very best musical and theatri¬ 
cal education. He painted in flowery language 
the brilliant future that lay before her. 

“You will be wealthy, and admired, and fa¬ 
mous the world over. You will have the whole 
world at your feet, and be the honored guest of 
kings and princes who will lavish costly jewels 
upon you, if you only come with me, and spend a 
few years in studying music and developing that 
wonderfully beautiful voice of yours. My wife 
is childless and will be a mother to you, and you 
shall be shielded from every evil, I promise you.” 

The florid, stout, little man grew quite eloquent 
in his excitement, yet she shrank from him with 
a feeling of distrust and dislike, and stammered 
that she didn’t wish to leave the Sisters. 

“You’ll have to leave them anyhow,” put in 
Mazie spitefully, “for if you don’t go with this 
gentleman, I’ll tell the Sisters all about your go¬ 
ing to the opera, and they’ll expel you for sure.” 

“They’ll expel you, too,” cried Chiquita indig¬ 
nantly. 

“What do I care? Haven’t I got a home? And 
besides, I mean to leave next year anyhow, and 
there’s a much jollier bunch at the high.” 

Chiquita shivered. The remembrance of all the 
difficulties that had been harassing her, came 


46 


CHIQUITA 


over her in full force, and the perspective of 
all the wealth and pleasure and glory that were 
promised her was so attractive! How different 
to the convent, being shut in between those four 
walls from one week to another. Still she could 
not make up her mind to trust herself to this 
man, still less to be so deceitful with Mother and 
the Sisters; so she muttered that she would think 
over it and finally gave an unwilling promise 
that she would come and give her anwser that 
afternoon, as soon as school was out. She did 
not exactly know how she would be able to do 
this, and in her heart of hearts I am not sure 
she even meant to keep her promise. Her great¬ 
est wish was to gain time in which to make her 
decision. 

The two girls got back into the play-yard just 
as the bell was about to ring for study, but as they 
came in, the young Sister in charge caught sight 
of them and asked them rather sharply what they 
had been on the street for. 

“Just to pick up our ball that had gone over 
the wall, Sister,” answered Mazie boldly, as she 
showed one which she had just drawn out of her 
pocket. 

“Next time it goes over you leave it there, 
please,” said the Sister with a look of annoy¬ 
ance, but a few minutes after, she had forgotten 
all about this act of disobedience to which she 


THE FOWLER’S NET 


47 


had attached but little importance. Chiquita 
was more than ever inattentive at her lesson, in¬ 
deed the poor child’s mind was in such a tur¬ 
moil of fear, remorse, vanity and excitement, that 
she couldn’t understand what she read, and the 
question she had to decide during the next few 
hours was certainly momentous enough to war¬ 
rant her giving all her attention to it. Sister 
Alberta had a letter for her from Father Harris 
which had arrived that morning, but in order to 
punish her for her inattention she had told the 
child she could not have it till the evening, and 
so Chiquita was deprived of this timely help 
which might have changed the whole course of 
her life. Ah! if Chiquita could only have prayed! 
but she felt too naughty to pray, it seemed to 
her as if God were miles away from her troubled 
heart, and too angry to listen to her. 

The girl watched the clock with agonized 
dread, grudging every minute as it slipped by 
and brought her nearer to the dreaded half-past 
three o’clock! Her heart was thumping wildly, 
every nerve in her body seemed to be tense and 
quivering with the suppressed excitement, and 
at last, at a quarter of three she could bear 
it no longer, and asking to be excused as she was 
not feeling well, she hastened out, determined 
to tell all to Mother Annunciata. 

The Superior was not in her room and Chiquita 


48 


CHIQUITA 


was rushing hither and thither in search of her 
when she met good Sister Martha, the lay Sis¬ 
ter, who was surprised to see her out of class, 
and, hearing that she had been excused on ac¬ 
count of a headache, exclaimed: 

“Why, then you’re just the one I wanted. Run 
and get me half a pound of butter at the grocery 
round the corner, that’s a good child. The air 
will do you good and I can’t finish my pastry 
for want of butter.” 

“I—I wanted to speak to Mother Annun- 
ciata,” stammered Chiquita anxiously. 

“Well, she’s with a lady in the parlor just 
now, but I dare say you can see her when you 
come back from your errand,” answered Sister 
Martha cheerfully. “I’ll get a good cup of hot 
tea ready for you while you’re gone, and that may 
cure your headache. Run along now, dear.” 

A minute later Chiquita found herself on the 
side street, which was a narrow and very quiet 
one. A large automobile was standing by the 
sidewalk only a few feet away, but in her dazed 
state of excitement she did not notice it. For 
a minute she stood undecided, wondering whether 
she had better go and see the manager, or, do her 
errand and then return home and confess every¬ 
thing to Mother Annunciata. 


V 


CAUGHT IN THE MESHES 

It seemed as if everything had conspired to 
enable Chiquita to keep her appointment with 
Signor Altazzi, but now that it was so easy to 
do so, the child felt a terrible dread of meeting 
this man, and besides, she recollected the letter 
from Father Harris which she was to get that 
evening. She could not go without seeing that, 
and the very thought of him brought with it a 
longing to be good and at peace with God and 
her conscience once more. Yes, she determined 
she would hurry over her errand, and go back 
to her dear kind friends and beg forgiveness on 
her knees if need be. So, resolutely turning her 
back to the direction in which lay the manager’s 
apartments, she was hurrying towards the gro¬ 
cery, when she was lifted up by two powerful 
arms, taken into the waiting automobile and 
rushed out of the city before she had time to 
realize what had happened to her. True, she 
had screamed and struggled, but the unearthly 
shrieks of the machine had effectually drowned 
her voice, and three people had held her down. 

49 


50 


CHIQUITA 


The terrible fright and emotion, coining as they 
did after three days of mental strain, were too 
much for the nervous child, and she fainted away 
for the first time in her life. 

When she came to herself, the machine was 
speeding through beautiful country scenery, and 
a sad, gentle-faced woman was bending over her, 
soothing and comforting her with words of love 
and encouragement. 

“Don’t be frightened, dear child, you are with 
friends,” she said gently, as she bathed the child’s 
forehead with perfume and chafed her little cold 
hands; while the manager looked on anxiously 
and his secretary did his best to help the lady to 
restore the child. 

“It was too bad to startle you so,” said the 
manager apologetically, “but you were just like 
a poor little caged bird, afraid to venture out 
into the beautiful free world, so we had to do 
the best we could, you see. You’ll thank us for 
it some day, when you are a famous prirna donna 
and everyone is in admiration of your talent and 
beauty.” 

“I want to go back, I want to go home,” cried 
Chiquita, struggling to get up. 

“Not just now, it is not possible,” said the lady 
gently, “but if you wish to do so in a few weeks, 
we’ll see what can be done—if you’re very good 
until then. You must try us for a time, dear.” 


CAUGHT IN THE MESHES 


51 


And feeling too weak and weary to struggle 
any more for the present, the girl resigned her¬ 
self to wait until then and allowed herself to 
be petted, admired, and made much of in every 
way. Her every whim was satisfied, everything 
that she desired was lavished upon her, beautiful 
clothes, jewels, even a pony of her own. They 
traveled in many lands, stayed at fine hotels, went 
to delightful concerts and best of all, Chiquita 
found in Signora Altazzi, the manager’s wife, 
the loving care and influence of a good, refined 
and sympathetic woman, who shielded her from 
every danger of mind and soul, as carefully as she 
would have done for her own beloved daughter, 
whom she had lost a few years back. 

Signora Altazzi was not too happy in her mar¬ 
ried life, and the death of her only child had left 
an incurable wound in her heart. She was soon 
passionately fond of Chiquita, or Margharita as 
they had re-named her, being anxious to do away 
with everything that could be any clue for the 
re-capture of the girl. The Signora had won 
the child’s heart by telling of her loneliness and 
sorrow, and entreating her to love her and think 
of her as her mother, and she missed no oppor¬ 
tunity for showering proofs of her affection on 
Chiquita, and doing all in her power to make 
her feel at home. The one and only thing that 
was denied her, was permission to go to the 


52 


CHIQUITA 


Sacraments or ever to enter a church, except 
when accompanied by her new mother. Indeed, 
though it was so cleverly done that the girl 
hardly noticed it, she was never allowed to go 
anywhere by herself, but was always guarded and 
watched. It was not that the Signora was other¬ 
wise than a good Catholic herself, but the mana¬ 
ger, who was a tyrant in the household, was in 
dread lest, if any priest got hold of Margharita, 
as he expressed it, he should induce her to leave 
her present friends and go back to the Sisters, 
and that, as he added, would never do, for he 
felt more and more that Chiquita was a gold 
mine for him. Besides, he was a free-mason him¬ 
self, and his poor wife, who was in great fear 
of him, was never allowed to see a priest or go 
to the Sacraments. From the very first he had 
started Margharita’s vocal and musical educa¬ 
tion, and found her a wondrously apt and en¬ 
thusiastic pupil, and the teachers he gave her 
in elocution, dancing, and dramatic art, were 
equally charmed with her wonderful aptitude 
and rapid progress. 

Chiquita made no further struggle to get away, 
she even submitted to his strict orders that she 
should never communicate with any of her old 
friends in California. But was she happy? Ah, 
no! In spite of all the petting and the luxuries 
that were lavished upon her, in spite of the praise 


CAUGHT IN THE MESHES 


53 


and admiration which she had so craved for, and 
of which she now had enough to turn any child's 
head, she was not happy. While in the whirl of 
the pleasures and excitement of her new life, and 
under the charm of the music she loved, she could 
forget and think she enjoyed the present; but, 
as soon as she was alone and had time for re¬ 
flection, she was tormented by the reproaches of 
her conscience, feeling how terribly ungrateful 
and deceitful she had been with Mother Annun- 
ciata and all the Sisters who had been so kind 
to her, a penniless orphan. She so longed to see 
them again, to obtain their forgiveness, and still 
more, that of Father Harris. She never thought 
of him without a pang of remorse and sorrow. 

And, if she missed her earthly friends, how 
far more terrible was the sorrow she experienced 
at having forfeited her privilege, as a frequent 
communicant and adorer of the Blessed Sacra¬ 
ment. How often she yearned for those happy, 
peaceful convent days and for the pure joys of 
her childhood! How bitterly she repented of 
her disobedience, in associating with Mazie, 
whose treacherous conduct she now saw clearly. 

The Altazzis took her to live first in Paris, 
then in Leipsic, in order to study under the most 
famous teachers, for she had soon gone beyond 
Signor Altazzi’s talent. They kept her very 
strictly in private life, as the manager was anx- 


54 


CHIQUITA 


ious to hide his jewel from all eyes till he was 
ready to startle the whole world by the revelation 
of her wondrous gifts, and indeed, she had to 
work so hard at all her various studies, that she 
would have had little time for social life. 

Meanwhile, what was going on among the lov¬ 
ing friends from whom she had been so rudely 
torn? Before the speeding auto was well out 
of the city, the Sisters had missed her, and their 
grief and consternation grew every hour when 
all efforts to find the child proved fruitless. In 
vain they searched the house and grounds, tele¬ 
phoned to the homes of all the pupils likely to 
know anything about her, and even informed the 
police. 

As soon as Mother Annunciata had heard of 
her disappearance, she had called all the Sisters 
together and endeavored to gather from them 
every clue which might help them in their search. 
The Sister who had had charge of the recreation 
told of having seen her come in from the street 
with Mazie before the study hour, and reproached 
herself for not having taken more notice of it. 
Mazie was sent for, but pretended utter ignor¬ 
ance of what had happened, saying, that all she 
knew, was that a tall dark man had been seen 
wandering around the convent for the last few 
days. Then, with many bitter tears and expres¬ 
sions of remorse, poor Sister Martha told of 


CAUGHT IN THE MESHES 


55 


having sent the child out to get some butter. 

“Why, Sister, dear, you have nothing to re¬ 
proach yourself about on that score,” answered 
the Superior, kindly, “has not Chiquita been in 
the habit of running our errands ever since she 
was quite a little thing? You could not possibly 
guess there was the slightest danger in her going 
half a block in broad daylight, and you are not 
in any way to blame whatever may have hap¬ 
pened. Oh! if I could only have been in my room 
when she came there! That lady kept me so use¬ 
lessly in the parlor, with her endless talk about 
nothing, and so I missed seeing Chiquita. Per¬ 
haps, the poor child knew of some danger or was 
in some strong temptation, and I might have 
saved the poor motherless little girl! Oh! what 
will Father Harris say when he hears about this? 
When I think of it, she had a letter from him to¬ 
day and that was always such a wonderful help 
to her. I feel sure she Tvould never have volun¬ 
tarily done wrong on a day when she heard from 
him.” 

“O, Mother!” cried Sister Alberta, bursting 
into tears, “I am so sorry, but the child had been 
so inattentive at her lessons all day that I had 
punished her by keeping her letter until this even¬ 
ing. You know we often punished her that w T ay, 
but oh! God grant I may be able to give it to 
her yet! Surely we must find her at last!” 


56 


CHIQUITA 


But, as we know, they did not do so and the 
good Sisters’ sorrow was pitiful. As to poor 
Sister Martha, she was unconsolable in spite of 
everyone’s assurances that she was in no way re¬ 
sponsible for their great loss. The child had been 
specially dear to her, and she was harassed by 
a dread lest her little Chiquita should have 
fallen into the hands of wicked people, who 
would make her lose her faith. Not only did she 
pray unceasingly for her, but she offered herself 
up in sacrifice, entreating God to make her suf¬ 
fer anything, even death itself, if thereby she 
might obtain the salvation of the dear child’s 
soul. 

Father Harris was deeply grieved and sadly 
anxious, feeling in a way responsible for the 
child who had been confided to him so trustfully 
by her dying mother. His idea was, that her 
father must have found trace of her, and spirited 
her away; the account of the presence of a tall, 
dark man seemed to confirm this idea, and when 
all their combined efforts proved fruitless, this 
was the conclusion everyone came to, everyone 
except Mazie and her mother, who were too well 
paid by Signor Altazzi not to keep their secret 
well. Being powerless to do anything else for 
their beloved Chiquita, Father Harris and the 
Sisters were ceaseless in their prayers for her, 
constantly offering up penances, mortifications 


CAUGHT IN THE MESHES 


57 


and good works for her welfare. About two 
years after the child’s strange disappearance 
other events occurred which did but increase 
their grief at having lost their protege, and 
caused still more strenuous efforts to be made to 
find track of her. 


VI 


A BRILLIANT DEBUT 

Four years had passed since Chiquita had left 
the convent, and the Signorita Margharita Altaz- 
zi, as she was now called, was declared to be ready 
in every way to appear before the public. There 
had been great discussion as to the opera in which 
she should first appear, and where she should 
make her debut. Signor Altazzi had wished her 
to play the Marguerite in Faust, but that she had 
flatly refused, as she felt that it would bring too 
many painful memories, to allow her to enjoy 
the triumph she felt sure of obtaining. She 
rather wished to appear as Carmen, a role which 
suited her dark beauty; but, after much dis¬ 
cussion, it was decided that the opera should be 
Lucia di Lammermoor, and that it should be 
played at the Grand Opera of Paris. 

The Altazzis were in a perfect fever of excite¬ 
ment over every detail which could add to the 
success of the debutante, but, strangely enough, 
now that the critical moment was approaching, 
Margharita seemed strangely indifferent. She 
was too sure of herself to be nervous, and she 
58 


A BRILLIANT DEBUT 


59 


felt as if numbed by the tension of the last few 
weeks. When the great day came, she allowed her¬ 
self to be dressed as in a dream, and Signor 
Altazzi was in perfect despair, fearing that the 
girl would play and sing without fire or expres¬ 
sion, and wondering what on earth had happened 
to the anticipated star. What had happened, 
was simply that she was haunted by the recol¬ 
lection of that first visit of hers to the opera, 
four years ago. 

The immense opera house was packed, for a 
rumor had run abroad that a wonderful star 
was about to appear, and crowds had come to 
see her; many of them, however, sneeringly re¬ 
marking that the unknown debutante would most 
likely prove a failure. She was said to come 
from Germany, and was most likely a stout 
homely Fraulein, with a pretty voice, but little 
fire or gift as an actress. The minute she ap¬ 
peared on the scene, however, her dazzling beauty, 
queenly carriage, and the wondrous grace of 
her every action, electrified the whole audience 
and there was a burst of applause. For a minute 
she stood as if petrified, dazzled by the sea of 
expectant faces before her. Then, with an un¬ 
conscious prayer for help, she began to sing. 
Her voice trembled for a minute, but she quickly 
recovered herself, and her exquisite voice poured 
forth with such wondrous power, such intense 


GO 


CHIQUITA 


feeling, that the whole audience listened in 
breathless ecstasy until she had finished. Then, 
such a storm of applause burst forth that it filled 
the whole house with a deafening roar, and it 
was some time before they could proceed with 
the opera. And, as the play went on, every time 
Lucia appeared the enthusiasm grew greater and 
greater. She was not only a wonderful singer 
with a rich, exquisite voice; she was a splendid 
actress who carried her hearers with her, and 
drew tears from the most cold-hearted. And 
then her beauty, her undefinable charm of man¬ 
ner! Never in memory of man had there been 
a greater success than hers. The opera house 
rang again with a thunder of applause, people 
clapped and shouted till their hands were sore 
and their throats hoarse, the stage was covered 
with the bouquets thrown to her, and more than 
one great lady in her delirium of admiration, tore 
off a bracelet or other jewel to fling at her feet. 
And Chiquita received all this admiration with 
perfectly self-possessed grace. True, her cheeks 
glowed and her eyes sparkled with triumphant 
joy, but she never for a minute lost her com¬ 
posure. When the opera was over and the whole 
house was wildly crying for her, she was led on 
to the stage by Signor Altazzi, radiant with joy 
and pride at the success of his pupil, and she 
was by far the most self-possessed of the two 


A BRILLIANT DEBUT 


61 


as they had to reappear over and over again, till 
the girl was almost deafened with the shouts 
and exhausted with the constant bowing and 
smiling. 

Needless to tell of all the congratulations and 
praise that were showered upon her by those 
privileged to see her after the closing of the 
opera house. No triumph could have been more 
perfect and none more deserved they told her. 
Her singing, her acting, her beauty, everything 
had been perfect, and she had outdone herself. 

“Was I not right when I promised you that 
the whole world would be at your feet one day, 
and told you it would be a sin to hide such 
talent as yours between the walls of a convent?” 
said Signor Altazzi when they had finally driven 
home. 

“Yes,” she answered wearily, “but what’s the 
good of all that admiration from people I don’t 
care about? I’d have been far happier if you’d 
left me in my peaceful convent home.” 

“Ingrate!” he exclaimed angrily. Then added 
with a laugh: “But you won’t think so tomorrow. 
You’re just over-tired tonight, and this is the 
reaction after your intense excitement. Put the 
child to bed, mother, for she’s only a child still, 
after all, this girl of sixteen. But what a voice! 
What acting! Oh! I certainly found a pearl of 
great price,” 


62 


CHIQUITA 


When Chiquita was alone with Signora Al- 
tazzi, her long-suppressed emotion burst out into 
passionate tears and sobs, and it was only from 
sheer exhaustion that she finally cried herself 
to sleep still clinging to her friend’s hand. A 
few hours afterwards, however, she woke up to 
think of it all, now glorying over her triumph, 
thinking of all the applause and admiration she 
had received, and of the intense excitement of 
the acting, then relapsing into sadness and long¬ 
ing for the friends of her childhood. She seemed 
haunted by the memory of her first childish 
triumph, the “Kail! Holy Night,” so lovingly, 
fervently sung at the Midnight Mass in that dear 
little chapel she would never see again! She 
thought of Father Harris, when he had told her 
that her voice was a great gift from God which 
she should use only for His glory. In vain she 
tried to drive all those recollections away, to 
think only of her brilliant future. Those past 
years of her life haunted her perpetually, and 
though she promised herself that a great part 
of her earnings should be spent in charity, she 
could not feel at rest. Her soul was just craving 
for its Lord and Master. 


VII 


MOTHERLESS ONCE MORE 

The glorious success of Signorita Margliarita’s 
debut was but the beginning of an uninterrupted 
series of triumphs, as she was taken from one 
capital to another, and everywhere the whole 
population went wild over her. Her youth, her 
queenly beauty, the charm and elegance of her 
manners, the dignity and spotlessness of her con¬ 
duct drew all hearts to her, and her exquisite 
voice and wonderful acting fairly carried her 
audiences away, and filled her hearers with the 
most intense enthusiasm. Kings and princes 
outdid each other in heaping honors upon her, 
and giving her priceless jewels. Her photographs 
were everywhere, her name in every one’s mouth. 
Wherever she went, crowds assembled to greet 
her, or at least to get a glimpse of her beautiful 
face. It was enough to turn any girl’s head, 
especially an inexperienced girl of only sixteen. 
But, like all Spanish girls, Chiquita was very 
womanly for her age, and she had a wonderfully 
clear head, firm will and perfect womanly tact. 

From the very first, she made her suitors un- 
63 


64 


CHIQUITA 


derstand that their attentions were distasteful to 
her, and that they were to keep their distance. 
True, she had at first been dazzled and flattered 
by all the admiration so lavishly showered upon 
her, but though it satisfied her pride, she soon 
became, as it were, surfeited with it all, and 
that weary craving for something higher in life 
seemed constantly gnawing at her heart. She 
loved her art, or rather arts, both as a singer 
and actress, and while on the stage, was so car¬ 
ried away by her part, that she felt as if she 
really were living it; but, when the opera and 
the ovation which always followed it were over, 
she would almost always, on her return home, be 
seized with sadness and yearning for the days 
of her childhood back again. 

It seemed strange that any girl so devoured 
with pride and love of admiration as she was, 
especially a girl who never approached the Sac¬ 
raments, should be able to keep her soul so un¬ 
spotted, her maidenly dignity so perfect. And 
yet it was not strange, after all, for unknown 
to her, in far away California, a holy nun who 
had offered herself up as a holocaust for the 
girl’s soul was dying by inches, a slow and agon¬ 
izing death from cancer, and Father Harris also 
was offering up ceaseless prayers and Masses 
for the spiritual child, of whose loss he was in¬ 
consolable. 


MOTHERLESS ONCE MORE 


65 


One day when Margharita and Signora Altazzi 
were driving along near a river in Italy, they 
saw a group of cruel little boys trying to drown 
a shaggy-haired puppy. Again and again they 
threw him in, but in spite of the stones thrown 
in the hope of sinking him, the poor little beast 
managed to swim back to shore again. Stopping 
the carriage and springing out, Margharita flew 
towards the boys, stormed at them for their 
cruelty, and, stooping down, took up the poor 
wet, trembling little creature, who whined piti¬ 
fully and looked entreatingly up at her with 
its great, soft brown eyes. To Signora Altazzi’s 
no little consternation, Margharita carried the 
puppy back to the carriage, wrapped it up in a 
costly fur cloak, and intimated her intention of 
keeping it for her own pet. At first, Signor 
Altazzi objected, stating that he did not like 
dogs, and that this one was a cur of no breed 
or pedigree whatever. Margharita quietly re¬ 
plied that if he objected to the dog in his house, 
she would have a separate establishment of her 
own, and he immediately yielded and even pre¬ 
tended to be fond of Carlo, as they called the 
puppy. 

Carlo was not, it is true, of any pure breed, 
nor was he a strictly beautiful dog, but he was 
a dear, so gentle and intelligent, and loving, that 
he won all hearts. As for Margharita, he was 


66 


CHIQUITA 


like her shadow, and endless were the attentions 
paid to him by his mistress’s admirers, who thus 
tried to win her favor, as she was immensely 
fond of her pet. 

After having starred all through Europe, it 
was decided that the Opera Company of which 
she was the glory, should come over to America. 
Among other cities, where they were to perform, 
were the principal ones of California, and they 
intended to finish up with the fast-growing city 
of Los Angeles. Chiquita had demurred at going 
to California at all, but the manager insisted so 
much that at last she yielded, only on the con¬ 
dition they should not even pass through Santa 
Benedicta. No one, she told herself, was likely 
to recognize her in any of the other towns, and 
if the associations that the sight of California 
were likely to bring back to her were too pain¬ 
ful, well, she’d find some excuse to hurry away. 

The morning after her first performance at 
Los Angeles, tempted by the beauty of the Cali¬ 
fornia sunshine and flowers, Chiquita allowed 
herself to be persuaded to go out with Signora 
Altazzi and Carlo. Her head ached slightly, and 
her adopted mother thought that a walk would 
be the best thing to shake it off. It was nearly 
half past ten, however, before they started, and, 
as they were making their way back to the hotel, 
they found themselves mixed up with a dense 


MOTHERLESS ONCE MORE 


67 


crowd of people anxious to see the circus pa¬ 
rade. These western crowds, though good-na¬ 
tured enough, are decidedly rough, and the ladies 
were both scared and bewildered in this seething 
throng. What was their consternation, however, 
when their discovered that in the crowd they had 
lost poor Carlo! 

They hastily turned back to look for him; 
they searched for hours, then went back to the 
hotel, Margharita in floods of tears and the 
Signora deeply distressed at the girl’s passionate 
sorrow. The police were notified and a ridicu¬ 
lously large reward offered for the dog, and Chi- 
quita was at last comforted by being assured that 
her pet would surely be restored to her. She out¬ 
did herself that evening in her part, but after she 
arrived home she sobbed herself to sleep, mourn¬ 
ing for the humble little friend whose love for 
her was so true and disinterested. 

The next day, she waited in feverish im¬ 
patience, expecting every minute to hear that he 
had been found, but as the afternoon wore on 
and no Carlo appeared, she was inconsolable, 
for they were obliged to leave by the night train 
to go and sing in a city of the Middle West the 
next evening. Orders were left that if found, 
the little dog should be sent on to them at once, 
but in spite of the tempting reward and all the 
efforts that were made to locate the great singer’s 


68 


CHIQUITA 


pet, not a trace could be found of him, and his 
mistress mourned deeply for him. In vain were 
priceless dogs of wonderful pedigree offered to 
her by the dozen, she would not even look at them, 
declaring that it was not the dog she missed, 
but his loving devotion and personality, and 
that no other pet should or could ever take his 
place. 

About six months later, Signora Altazzi heard 
that her mother was dying in Gurin and wished 
to see her, and she was, of course, very anxious 
to go at once. Signor Altazzi would not hear of 
it at first, but Margharita insisted that the 
Signora should go if she wished to, and, as usual, 
her desires prevailed. In fact, she could always 
do anything with Signor Altazzi, for, if crossed, 
she calmly declared she would refuse to sing that 
night, and as she had carried out her threat once, 
he knew it was no idle boast. Her non-appear¬ 
ance meant the loss of thousands of dollars, and 
the manager was not anxious to run such risks. 
He had made a signed agreement with Signorita 
Margharita, to the effect that he was to have half 
her proceeds for the first two years, and that if 
she broke away from him before that time was 
up, she should pay him a very large sum, pro¬ 
portionate to the length of time of which she 
defrauded him. Chiquita had now been singing 
a year and a half, and though very wealthy and 


MOTHERLESS ONCE MORE 


69 


humored in every way, she longed for the time 
when she would be free from Signor Altazzi, 
whom she had always disliked, much as she loved 
his wife. 

The manager having been obliged to yield as 
to his wife’s journey to Italy, she procured the 
services of a thoroughly experienced, reliable, 
and pious middle-aged lady as companion and 
chaperon for Margharita, and with many kisses 
and tears, the girl and her adopted mother who 
had never been parted a single day for the last 
six years, took a sorrowful leave of each other. 
They were at London just then, but the very same 
day that the Signora started for Gurin, Chiquita 
accompanied by her companion and maid and 
Signor Altazzi, went off to Russia, where she 
was to sing at a State Concert before the Im¬ 
perial Court. 

It was supposed that the Signora’s mother 
could not live many days, and that as soon as 
the funeral was over, her daughter would hasten 
to join the others in St. Petersburg. Owing to 
the fact of their traveling in opposite directions 
and the mail taking a considerable time to reach 
St. Petersburg from Gurin, it was over a week 
before Margharita received a letter, and when 
she did so, she learned with sorrow and bewilder¬ 
ment that not only had the Signora arrived too 
late to see her mother, but that on her journey 


70 


CHIQUITA 


she had herself caught a violent chill which had 
resulted in pneumonia. Her sister, who wrote 
for her, said that the Signora desired that Mar- 
gharita should not be made anxious about her, 
but she added that she thought it was best the 
girl should know that her adopted mother was 
very dangerously sick, and that the doctor had 
little hope of saving her. Margharita was in 
despair and wanted to start at once for Gurin, 
but she was again to appear before the Emperor 
and Empress that evening, and Signor Altazzi 
proved to her that she could reach Italy just as 
fast by starting early the next morning, and that 
her engagement was not one that could possibly 
be put off. Though wild with anxiety, the girl 
yielded, preparing everything for her departure 
early the next morning. In spite of her dis¬ 
tress, her acting and singing were magnificent, 
and the Czarina, moved to tears, unfastened the 
magnificent diamond brooch which fastened a 
spray of rare orchids to her breast, and pinned 
it with her own hands to the beautiful blushing 
prima donna’s gown. Margharita received the 
gift with her usual tactful grace, feeling deeply 
moved at the kind words of admiration and 
sympathy the Czarina spoke to her. 

Not for a minute, however, had she forgotten 
her sorrow and anxiety about her loving friend, 
and as soon as she could get away she did so, 


MOTHERLESS ONCE MORE 


71 


and drove hurriedly to the hotel to finish pre¬ 
paring for her journey the next morning. On 
arriving at her apartments, however, she found 
a telegram waiting for her, and opened it with 
trembling fingers. Her face paled as she read 
it, the room seemed to be wheeling round her, 
a strange darkness falling over her, and stretch¬ 
ing out her hands with a low cry of pain, she 
fell fainting in the arms of her lady companion. 
It was no use for her to start now, the Signora 
Altazzi had died that morning, “fortified by all 
the rites of Holy Church,” added the telegram. 

Margharita was simply broken-hearted, so 
prostrated with grief that she could not be per¬ 
suaded to see anyone or even to take food. Ex¬ 
pressions of sympathy poured in on all sides, for, 
though it was known that the girl was only an 
adopted daughter, her devotion to the Signora 
was proverbial. Even the Czarina, hearing of 
the beautiful girl’s intense grief, was kind enough 
to wTite her an autograph letter of sympathy, 
which touched the young singer far more than 
the gift of the priceless diamond brooch had done. 

The one thing which had been a solace to Chi- 
quita was to know that her loved friend had 
died a holy death and received the Sacraments. 
A few days later she received a long letter from 
the Signora’s sister giving all the details of her 
sickness and death, and delivering her last lov- 


72 


CHIQUITA 


ing messages to Margharita. She said that her 
only regret in leaving this world was to leave 
Margharita alone and unprotected, and she bade 
her thank God with her for having allowed her 
to die at home among her own people, where she 
had been able to make her peace with God and 
die happy, strengthened by the Sacraments, and 
especially by her dear Lord’s forgiveness and His 
presence in her heart. “You will soon be freed 
from your engagement with the Signor, dear¬ 
est,” she added, “but do not wait until then to 
have a separate establishment of your own and, 
as soon as you are your own mistress, make your 
peace with God, and observe your religion faith¬ 
fully in future. You will never be happy un¬ 
til you do, my own. Remember this was my dy¬ 
ing wish.” 

Chiquita trembled as she read the last words, 
for, having stayed away from confession so long, 
she felt as if she could never go again, as if this 
were a task beyond her strength and courage. 
Anyhow, her foster-mother had not expected her 
to do this until she was free, and that gave her 
breathing time. She insisted on parting com¬ 
pany with the Signor immediately, though they 
remained very good friends, and she was really 
grateful to him for the magnificent education 
he had given her. She also determined to be 
faithful to her engagement to him, up to the very 


MOTHERLESS ONCE MORE 


73 


last day, and did not spare herself, but sang sev¬ 
eral times a week on an average, both of them 
reaping a golden harvest each time she appeared. 

The very last weeks of her engagement were 
to be spent in a second American tour and, 
strangely enough, it was to end by a couple of 
operatic nights at Los Angeles, of which Chi- 
quita now hated the very name, though in a way 
she was almost glad to go there, always having 
a vague hope of hearing something of her beloved 
Carlo. 


VIII 


LITTLE BRIDGET AND HER FRIEND 

Was it because her engagement with Signor 
Altazzi was to come to an end in a couple of 
days, and that in future she would have to rely 
more entirely upon herself, or was it simply be¬ 
cause the sight of California again brought back 
so vividly the scenes and friends of her child¬ 
hood, and the recollection of the loss of her pet? 
Signorita Margharita could not have told her¬ 
self, but all she knew was that one of those un¬ 
accountable fits of depression, weariness, and dis¬ 
gust of everything had taken possession of her, 
even before the train arrived at Los Angeles. 
There had been an unavoidable delay about the 
arrival of the company, and they barely reached 
the city in time to prepare for the first representa¬ 
tion. Of course, the house was more than packed 
and the audience simply delirious with enthu¬ 
siasm, for, strange to say, Margharita’s moods 
never affected her singing or acting, as she al¬ 
ways forgot everything but her part when on the 
stage. 

She hastened back to her hotel after the per- 
74 



BRIDGET AND HER FRIEND 75 

formance, however, and her heart felt heavy as 
lead. It seemed to her as if some great and 
unknown sorrow had fallen upon her, and she 
felt as broken-hearted as she had been after her 
foster-mother’s death. For hours she tossed 
about restlessly and nothing she could do seemed 
to ease that wretched aching at her heart. She 
tried to read, but the words had no meaning for 
her, she tried to think of her triumph that night, 
but the thought of it only palled upon her. 

At last she fell into an uneasy, fitful sleep, 
and she dreamed that she saw Father Harris 
coming towards her as in the days of her child¬ 
hood. At first she seemed unchanged, but sud¬ 
denly she realized how sorrowfully and reproach¬ 
fully he was looking at her, and as she tried to 
hasten towards him, he appeared to get further 
and further from her and finally vanished from 
before her eyes. She woke herself up with a 
moan of pain, and again she lay for hours vainly 
trying to drive away the recollection of him 
and of his look of reproach. At last she dozed 
again and this time she found herself in the 
church at Santa Benedicta. She was at a funeral 
and the mournful music made her heart ache, 
but she did not know who was lying in that cof¬ 
fin. At last someone came and took her by the 
hand saying, “You will take a last look at him,’ 
and drew her, much against her will, towards 


76 


CHIQUITA 


the coffin. And as she gazed awe-struck, the 
closed eyes slowly opened and looked at her once 
more with that sorrowful expression of appeal 
and reproach. It was Father Harris! Mar- 
gharita tried to scream, but she could not, and 
at last she woke up, thankful beyond words to 
find this was but a dream. Still she could not 
rid herself of the haunting remembrance of that 
look of reproach and pleading. Was it really 
a message from the dead? Trembling and scared 
she fell on her knees by the bedside, and remem¬ 
bering the dying Signora’s wish, prayed for help 
and courage to enable her to find her true friend, 
and become a practical Catholic once more. 

It seemed to her the night would never end, 
and she wished with all her heart she had never 
come back to California and its painful rem¬ 
iniscences. As soon as the first gleams of light 
appeared, she rose and dressed hastily, deter¬ 
mined to go out and seek relief in the fresh air 
and beauty of the morning. Her chaperon was 
still sleeping heavily, wearied by the fatigues 
of the last few days and Margharita resolved 
not to wake her. She would have no need of a 
chaperon at that time in the morning she thought. 

There were as yet but very few people in the 
streets when she first got out, and she began 
hurrying along as if to escape from her harassing 
thoughts and aching heart. Soon she had hur- 


BRIDGET AND HER FRIEND 


77 


ried through the business quarter and passed 
through street after street of beautiful resi¬ 
dences, surrounded by stately palms, graceful 
pepper trees and a whole wealth of brilliantly 
colored flowers of all kinds. In the trees the 
birds were singing their morning hymn, happy 
and rejoicing in the bright sunshine and balmy 
air, and although the girl hardly noticed all 
these things, yet they produced a soothing and 
softening impression on her, calming her over¬ 
wrought nerves and making her think lovingly 
of the giver of all this beauty and peace. 

Still she hurried on, hardly noticing that she 
had turned into a much poorer part of the town 
and that the stately villas were replaced by poor 
cottages, mere shacks some of them, around 
which scores of children of all nations were play¬ 
ing. There were jolly little negroes with their 
fuzzy curls, and swarthy Indians and Mexicans 
with great dark eyes and straight black hair, and 
children of the white races, some of them so fair 
that their hair was bleached almost white. They 
stared not a little at the lovely lady hurrying 
past them without a look or a smile, as if un¬ 
conscious of all that went on around her. 

All of a sudden, Margharita gave a cry of 
surprise and joy, for a short distance ahead of 
her, following a poor little pale-faced girl whose 
scanty garments were almost in rags, was a little 


78 CHIQUITA 

shaggy-haired dog and the more she looked at 
him the more sure she was that it was her lost 
pet, her own dear Carlo! He was trotting close 
by the poor child’s side and looking up lovingly 
at her every now and then with those soft brown 
eyes of his, while she talked to him in a soft 
crooning voice, a wan smile lighting up her poor 
pinched face as she did so. 

The great singer sprang forward, and clutch¬ 
ing the child by the arm, exclaimed angrily, 
“Here! you little thief! I’ve caught you at last. 
That’s my dog.” 

The poor child’s face flushed, her eyes filled 
with tears and she looked frightened to death, 
but she answered quickly: 

“Oh, no mam! that ain’t your dog, that’s my 
dear doggie that Our Lady sent me. I’ve had 
him best part of a year, mam, all the neighbors 
can tell you I’ve had him best part of a year,” 
she added, sobbing and wringing her hands. 

Carlo had recognized Margharita and was al¬ 
ternately leaping all over her with every sign of 
joy and recognition, and then jumping up at the 
child, licking her hands and face with plaintive 
whines as if to comfort her. 

“It’s just about a year since I lost my dog,” 
said Margharita, still in a harsh angry voice, 
“how did you come to get him?” 

For a few minutes the little girl sobbed so that 


BRIDGET AND HER FRIEND 


79 


she couldn’t speak; at last she managed to tell 
her sad story: 

“It was one evening as there was a circus 
a’going on, and the woman as has me—she ain’t 
my mother, for dear mother she dead and father, 
too—and the woman she sends me out to sell 
some flowers, but the people they was too anx¬ 
ious ’bout the circus for to care for flowers, so I 
couldn’t sell hardly any, and I was a’crying as 
I corned home, for I knowed the woman ad beat 
me and send me to bed without supper, and I 
was that hungry! And I felt that lonesome and 
sad like that I wished I was dead with mother, 
and then I remembered she’d a told me always 
to pray to Our Lady when I was in trouble, and 
I prayed, oh! that hard, that she’d send me a 
friend. I didn’t seem to mind so much being 
hungry if only I had a friend to love me always 
And I hardly done a’praying when I heard a 
pattering noise and I was that scared! till I 
seed it was nothing but a pore little dawg, and 
some of them limbs of boys had tied an old sauce¬ 
pan to its tail, and that was a’scaring him almost 
to death. I had lots o’ trouble to ketch him, but 
I managed to, and got that there saucepan off, 
and petted him and wiped him with my dress 
cose he was all wet and muddy. Then I just 
crawled into my cupboard, for I knowed it warn’t 
no good asking for any supper, and the dear 


80 


CHIQUITA 


doggy he comes and cuddles up in me arms and 
ever since he’s never left me, and there ain’t a 
day but I’ve thanked Our Lady for sending him 
to me that night. And oh mam! mam!” she ex¬ 
claimed, clasping her hands while the tears 
streamed down her thin starved-looking face, 
“don’t take my doggie away! he’s the only one 
I’ve got in the world to love me!” 

The child’s grief was evidently so genuine, her 
cry was so pathetic that a woman must indeed 
have had a heart of stone not to feel touched by it. 
Chiquita’s eyes were moist and her voice trem¬ 
bled as she laid her hand on the little girl’s 
shoulder, and said gently, “Where do you live? 
Show me.” 

“’Taint a very nice place for a pretty lady like 
yourself ter go to, but the woman as has me 
was that drunk last night that I don’t expects 
she’ll be awake yet, so you won’t get none of 
her jaw anyways,” and the little girl, w’hose 
name was Bridget, led the young actress into 
one of the slummiest parts of the town, down a 
dingy street, where most unprepossessing looking 
characters were walking about, and stared covet¬ 
ously at the beautifully dressed lady and at the 
costly jewels on her fingers. 

At last little Bridget stopped by one of the 
most squallid looking shacks and opening a low 


BRIDGET AND HER FRIEND 81 

door on one side of it, showed what must have 
been intended for a coal hole originally. 

“That’s where me and Toby sleeps,” she ex¬ 
plained, “I used to be awful scared of the rats 
and mice and crawlin’ bugs till I had Toby, but 
after Our Lady sent him I felt all safe with me 
Toby. You see it must have been Our Lady as 
sent him, cose he corned to me just the very min¬ 
ute as I was a’begging ’er to send me a friend, and 
oh, lady! lady! please don’t take me Toby away, 
for he’s just a lovely friend to me!” 

“I won’t part you and Toby,” said Margharita 
gently, “Now show me the rest.” 

The child half fearfully pushed open a door 
leading straight into a squalidly dirty room, 
reeking with the smell of drink, and in which a 
coarse, bloated-looking woman was stretched 
upon a heap of dirty rags on the floor. 

“I’ve seen enough, come away, come with me, 
poor child,” said Margharita impulsively, “and 
let us get away from this awful neighborhood 
as soon as we can.” 

The companion and maid were not a little as¬ 
tonished when the young actress got back to 
the hotel and confided to them the care of the 
little beggar child and the shaggy-haired dog, 
both of whom she requested the maid to bathe 
and comb, afterwards dressing the little girl in 
some clothes she had bought for her on the way. 


82 


CHIQUITA 


Signorita Margharita seemed transformed. 
Never had they seen such a glow of real happiness 
on her beautiful face, such a joyful lustre in her 
magnificent eyes. Her face was so softened and 
illumined with her delight that it looked like 
that of some happy innocent child. To be sure 
she was only eighteen after all! 

It was not only that she had found her long 
lost pet again, but although the young actress 
had always been lavishly generous to all manner 
of charity, she had never before been able to 
personally perform such a work of mercy as 
she thought of now, and the very prospect of it 
filled her heart with that purest of all joy, that 
of doing good. 


IX 


BRING FORTH THE BEST ROBE 

It was a strange idea which had come to the 
young prima donna. This child’s history, the 
sight of the misery she had been in, the account 
of her loneliness, all this had touched Chiquita’s 
warm heart to the quick and she suddenly deter¬ 
mined that this poor little waif should be what 
she might have been, a quietly happy, peaceful, 
convent-bred child, perhaps later on a saintly 
zealous nun like Mother Annunciata. She should 
have every comfort, every advantage of educa¬ 
tion, everything that money and love could give 
her, but she should not be thrown into the tur¬ 
moil and dangers of the world. Margharita 
would watch her grow up, and see in her, as in 
a living mirror, the Chiquita that might have 
been. 

But how was this to be brought about? What 
convent should she take her to? Would she have 
any legal proceeding to go through in order to 
have lawful possession of the child, she won¬ 
dered? Whom could she consult? A Catholic 
priest? The very thought made her feel nerv- 
83 


84 


CHIQUITA 


ous and frightened, for it was so long since she’d 
spoken to a priest. And yet, why not? No one 
would know her here, and did she not mean to 
go to confession herself soon! She might as well 
take the first step at once. 

So, as soon as she had breakfasted, she made 
a more careful toilette, and leaving Carlo and 
the now radiant Bridget in charge of her com¬ 
panion, she hastened to the nearest rectory. As 
she drew near it, however, her courage nearly 
forsook her and she almost turned back two or 
three times. Still, she was really anxious to do 
her best for Bridget and nerving herself she 
hastened up the steps. Even at the very door 
she hesitated, but, feeling that a passer-by was 
looking at her inquisitively, she hastily rang the 
bell and soon found herself in the parlor of the 
rectory. 

“Oh! any of the Fathers, I don’t care which, 
for I don’t know any of them,” she answered 
hastily in reply to the housekeeper’s query. 

It all seemed so strange, and yet so familiar. 
The beautiful crucifix on the wall, the pictures 
of the Sacred Heart and Our Lady. Oh! what 
memories they brought back! She was getting 
more and more unnerved, her heart beat fast 
and she tremblingly pressed together her little 
hands, sparkling with priceless jewels. Could 
this shy, nervous girl be the great prima donna, 


BRING FORTH THE BEST ROBE 85 


ever so calm and self-possessed even when re¬ 
ceiving the enthusiastic admiration of countless 
crowds, and the homage of the greatest digni¬ 
taries in every land? Had she not always prided 
herself on her perfect self-command? Yet whom 
was she expecting to see now? Only a simple, 
hard working priest. What would he be like 
when he came in? She heard his step at last, 
and again it sounded strangely familiar, and 
seemed to set her heart beating more wildly than 
ever. 

The door opened, and a tall, slight, ascetic 
looking Jesuit came into the room, a priest who, 
though evidently anything but an old man, was 
grey already. His singularly sweet and kindly 
face was very thin and worn by much suffering 
and anxious work. For an instant, although 
Margharita knew he was there, she dared not 
look up, still she arose and moved towards him 
with all her queenly grace of manner. 

Then, in spite of herself, she raised her eyes 
and uttered a low cry*—was it joy or pain? She 
hardly knew, for there before her stood Father 
Harris, but oh! so aged, so altered, with such 
lines of suffering and care upon his face! For 
an instant he gazed at the beautiful, elegantly 
dressed girl, then a look of intense joy illumined 
and transfigured him, and with outstretched 
hands and swimming eyes he cried: “Oh, Chi- 


86 


CHIQUITA 


quita, my child! my child! come back to us at 
last after all these years! Sister Martha’s sacri¬ 
fice has not been in vain. How good God has been 
to let me see you and welcome you back before I 
die. I have so prayed for it. Where have you 
been, Chiquita? I feared—I hardly knew what 
not to fear for you, poor child!” 

Chiquita stood, stunned and speechless, for a 
few moments. She felt as if she ought to ex¬ 
plain that she had not known of his being there, 
that she had come on another errand, but his 
look of joy was so intense that she could not bear 
to disappoint him and besides, after all, had she 
not meant to make her peace with God in a few 
days? and was not her joy at seeing him once 
more still greater than his could be? 

“Oh Father, Father!” she cried at last, taking 
his thin hand in her little bejew T eled ones and 
pressing it reverently to her lips. “I have be¬ 
haved badly, ungratefully I know, but oh! I am 
so happy to feel that I can be your child once 
more. I’ve been vain and frivolous, Father, but 
God in His mercy has saved me from any greater 
sin. I’ve always worn my Child of Mary medal 
and never forfeited my right to it, though I’ve 
been an actress. You’ve heard of Margharita 
Altazzi, Father?” 

“Altazzi! You have become that great singer 
that all the world is raving about? You, little 


BRING FORTH THE BEST ROBE 87 


Ohiquita! Yes, God has indeed been merciful, 
for if one has heard of your talents, the fame 
of your spotless life has also come before you, 
Chiquita. Poor Sister Martha! If she could 
only have known before she died—but she knows 
now.” 

“ Sister Martha, the dear old lay Sister at the 
convent, do you mean?” asked Chiquita anx¬ 
iously. 

“Ah! you may well call her the dear old Sister, 
my child, for you little know what you owe to 
that saintly woman,” said the Father earnestly. 
Then in a moved voice he told the young actress 
how the humble nun had offered herself up, to 
suffer and die for the salvation of their little 
Chiquita’s soul, told of the long years of agon¬ 
izing pain so patiently, lovingly borne for her 
sake, and added: “It was only two days ago 
that her pure soul passed to its heavenly reward. 
Almost her last words were to offer up her life 
for you. Yesterday they laid her to rest and 
today you have come back to us, having passed 
unscathed through the greatest temptation. Oh! 
we can never be grateful enough to that humble 
woman, Chiquita. What about your religious 
duties? Have you been faithful to them, child?” 
Then seeing the girl’s eyes swimming with tears, 
he added kindly: “Let us sit down and you will 
tell me the whole story of your life.” 


88 


CHIQUITA 


At first the young singer could not speak. 
The account of Sister Martha’s sacrifice had so 
moved her that for a few minutes she sobbed un¬ 
controllably. When she was able to recover her 
composure, however, she told the kind priest all, 
her many vain, rebellious thoughts as a convent 
child, her first disobedience and deceit in going to 
the opera, and all the other events of her life even 
to her strange dreams of him that night, and to 
the finding of little Bridget in the morning, and 
the real object of her visit to the rectory. 

“How wonderfully God’s grace and Our 
Lady’s help have pursued and helped you, Chi- 
quita, in spite of all your unfaithfulness. Does 
it not seem almost a miracle that you should 
have found that poor little Catholic orphan this 
morning and that through your charity to her, 
you should have unconsciously come to see me 
here?” 

“It does, indeed, and I can never, never be 
grateful enough, and now ^vhat do you want me 
to do, Father? I’ll obey you blindly, whatever it 
costs me, for I mean to atone for the past. Dear 
Sister Martha’s sacrifice shall not have been made 
in vain.” 

Father Harris smiled and gave a low, happy 
laugh. 

“That’s just like you, Chiquita. You have not 
changed and there were never any half measures 


BRING FORTH THE BEST ROBE 89 


about you. Well, first of all, I want you to go 
to the Chapel and prepare to make a good con¬ 
fession.” 

“But, Father! it is six years since I went to 
confession. I shall never be able to think of 
everything in a few hours.” 

“I think you have pretty well made your con¬ 
fession to me already,” he said, with a smile, 
“and in any case I feel sure you’re quite pre¬ 
pared to make one today, and I don’t even in¬ 
tend to give you hours and hours to prepare. 
I’ll take you before the Tabernacle and there at 
Our Dear Lord’s feet I will give you half an 
hour in which to think of your sins. During that 
time I shall sit near my confessional and pray 
for you. It is always good to strike the iron 
while it’s hot you know, Chiquita, and besides, 
you might come tomorrow and find me gone, and 
you would find it more difficult to tell all to a 
stranger.” 

“Gone, Father?” she asked anxiously. 

“Yes, child, I have been seriously ill for sev¬ 
eral years. It is heart trouble and doctors say 
that although I may live for many years, on the 
other hand I might die any minute, so you see 
it is best to be on the safe side. Don’t cry, Chi¬ 
quita, I have something very wonderful to tell 
you after you’ve made your confession. Come 


90 


CHIQUITA 


to Our Dear Lord now. He has been waiting 
for you far too long already.” 

So he led her into the quiet little Chapel, and 
as she knelt before the Tabernacle she sobbed 
out all her remorse, her gratitude, and felt how 
weary had been her yearning for her Lord dur¬ 
ing those long years in which she had turned 
her back upon Him. 

When Father Harris had called her to the con¬ 
fessional he was moved to happy tears by her 
fervent contrition, her deep humility and her in¬ 
tense desire to make amends for the past. After 
she had been absolved, and had made a long and 
earnest thanksgiving, they went back to the par¬ 
lor where the young singer was to hear of some¬ 
thing which would once more change the whole 
course of her life. 


X 


FOUND AT LAST 

When Father Harris and his penitent had re¬ 
turned to the parlor her first words were an anx¬ 
ious inquiry. 

“Will you expect me to give up my art, 
Father?” 

“Your acting, perhaps, your singing, certainly 
not, for I think you can do much good with it, 
but there are others who wish to decide most 
things for you, Chiquita, and while you were 
making your thanksgiving, I was sending off 
a cablegram to Spain which will bring intense 
joy to the hearts of those who receive it. It con¬ 
sisted of but a few words: ‘Dona Esperanza 
found. Come at once to San Francisco/ ” 

“Esperanza? yes! I know that is my real 
name. But who were you telegraphing to?” 

“Ah! that is my secret,” said Father Harris. 
“But now I will tell you all. Only a few years 
after your disappearance, Mother Annunciata 
had a visit from a Spanish priest sent as am¬ 
bassador by one of the wealthiest and most dis- 
91 


92 CHIQUITA 

tinguished families of the high Spanish aris¬ 
tocracy.” 

“How is Mother Annunciata? Shall I be able 
to go and see her?” interrupted Chiquita. 

“Yes, she is now Mother Superior at San Fran¬ 
cisco and will be overjoyed to see her child once 
more. But don’t you wish to know who these 
Spanish grandees were and what they wanted?” 

“Yes,” answered the girl, “but I’m half afraid. 
It wasn’t my father, was it?” 

“No, if it had been, I should not have let him 
know your whereabouts, for it was your mother s 
dying wish you should be shielded from his in¬ 
fluence. These people are your grandparents. 
They had two children only, an idolized son, and 
your mother. When only sixteen she fell in love 
with her music master, whose beautiful voice 
won her heart, and she met, of course, with the 
parents’ violent opposition, for there are no peo¬ 
ple in the world more exclusive than the real 
Spanish grandees. So she finally ran away and 
got married to the musician. She soon bitterly 
repented of it, for not only was she altogether 
cast off by her family, but she soon discovered 
her husband to be utterly worthless. After a 
short time he became an anarchist, and forbade 
your mother ever to put her foot inside a church 
again, or speak to you of God or Our Lady. She 
had borne poverty, loneliness, and ill-usage, but 


FOUND AT LAST 


93 


when he tried to step between her child and God, 
your mother determined to save you from his 
influence at all costs. Selling a few jewels that 
she had concealed from him, she came over to 
America as a poor emigrant and made her way 
to California. There she hid herself in that little 
cabin in the woods, where I finally found her dy¬ 
ing and where she confided you to me, Chiquita. 
Before we buried her, we found hanging around 
her neck some medals and a locket containing a 
lock of hair and a portrait, while outside of it 
were engraved some dates and the name Tullita. 
I kept these carefully, thinking they might per¬ 
haps be useful some day in identifying you, and 
this proved to be the case. 

“Very soon after your mother’s death, her only 
brother who was unmarried was killed by a fall 
from his horse, and his broken-hearted parents 
found themselves childless and without a direct 
heir to their vast estates. They had knowm that 
your mother had fallen into great poverty, they 
now heard that she had run away from her un¬ 
worthy husband wdio had been, but a few months 
afterwards, killed in a revolutionary outbreak. 
So now they were anxious to find their daughter 
again, and restore her to her place as heiress 
of their estates, which w^ould otherwise pass to a 
much hated younger branch of the family, faith¬ 
less to its king and to the traditions of its race. 


94 


CHIQUITA 


“They made every effort to find a trace of your 
mother, but for many years their efforts were 
fruitless. At last, almost by a miracle, this 
Spanish priest traced her to her mountain home 
and heard of her death, and of your subsequent 
adoption by the Sisters of the Convent of Santa 
Benedicta. Overjoyed, he hastened there, only 
to find that two years previously you had been 
spirited away by your father as we then thought. 
He proved to us that this was impossible, as 
your wretched father had been dead many years, 
and having made doubly sure of your identity 
by the locket which he took back to the bereaved 
parents, they joined us in an eager search for 
you the world over. It was strange when I think 
of it now, that remembering your wonderfully 
beautiful voice, we should never have looked 
upon that as a clue. Your grandfather was al¬ 
most broken-hearted, and has long given up all 
hope of finding you, but your grandmother who 
is, I hear, a most charming and intensely pious 
woman, has always been confident that her pray¬ 
ers would be answered some day or other.” 

“Strange! I sang several times in the prin¬ 
cipal Spanish cities and even before the Spanish 
court. I wonder if we met without knowing it, 
my grandmother and I?” 

“Surely, for the Marchesa Maria del Espinola 
is one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting.” 


FOUND AT LAST 95 

“Marchesa del Espinola! I have seen her sev¬ 
eral times, a stately, beautiful woman with white 
hair and magnificent eyes, almost more queenly 
and dignified than the Queen herself! I wonder 
what she will think of her grand-daughter hav¬ 
ing been an actress, this great lady of the bluest 
of blue Castilian blood,” added Chiquita, with 
a little laugh. 

“I ^ ave n °t the slightest doubt but that she 
will be duly horrified,” laughed Father Harris, 
“but your wonderful success and unimpeachable 
reputation will reconcile her to some extent, still 
I think your days as an actress are over, Chi¬ 
quita.” 

“Well, I have to play tonight. It is my last 
engagement. After that I will be free and can 
take a holiday while awaiting the arrival of my 
noble relatives. I rather dread meeting them! 
they seemed so terribly aristocratic!” 

“Do you know what I should advise you to 
do, Chiquita? Take little Bridget with you and 
go to San Francisco, where you can leave her 
as you had intended in Mother Annunciata’s 
care. Spend a day or two enjoying your dear 
Mother Superior once more, then go for a week 
to the Sacred Heart Convent where I will be 
giving a retreat for ladies.” 

“You will, Father? Oh! how delightful!” cried 


96 CHIQUITA 

Chiquita. “There seems no end to God’s good¬ 
ness to me.” 

“No, his mercy is infinite, and the angels are 
rejoicing with Him today, Chiquita, over the 
sincere return of His faithless child.” 

Words cannot depict the joy and thankfulness 
with which Mother Annunciata once more em¬ 
braced her lost child, and heard of her sincere 
resolve to serve God earnestly in the future. Lit¬ 
tle Bridget was received with open arms, and 
soon found herself so surrounded by loving 
friends that she bravely, though tearfully, made 
the sacrifice of giving up her little Toby to her 
benefactress. 

A week later, when she entered the convent 
in which she was to make her retreat, Chiquita 
went at once to the Chapel, and falling on her 
knees, she said with a firm resolve to follow every 
impulse of grace: “Lord, what wilt Thou have 
me to do?” No one made that retreat with more 
fervent devotion, though everyone was fairly car¬ 
ried away by the heart-stirring eloquence of 
Father Harris, by his wonderful gift in the di¬ 
rection of souls, by the atmosphere of burning 
piety that reigned in the place, and by the ex¬ 
quisite music which seemed to set the coldest 
hearts on fire with the love of God. No one 
knew who the chief singer was, but her glorious 
voice vibrating with fervor and emotion filled the 


FOUND AT LAST 


97 


Chapel with its wonderful power and pathos, and 
seemed more like that of an angel than of a 
woman. Her “O Salutaris and Tantum Ergos” 
moved her hearers to tears, so intense and pas¬ 
sionate was the feeling of adoration, love, and 
praise, the singer put into them. 

At the end of the retreat there were found to 
be many vocations, which had sprung out of it, 
but Chiquita’s was not one of them. She had 
found intense peace, happiness, and an earnest 
desire to spend the rest of her life in working 
for the greater glory of God, but in spite of her 
deep piety, Father Harris did not find that she 
had any vocation to the religious life, and ad¬ 
vised her to make up her mind to sanctify her¬ 
self in the world as so many saints had done be¬ 
fore her. 

Just fifteen days after the sending of the cable¬ 
gram, the Marchese and Marchesa d’Espinolas 
arrived at San Francisco where they were over¬ 
joyed to find their beautiful, accomplished, and 
altogether charming grand-daughter. Her grace¬ 
ful carriage and stately manners delighted them, 
and her warm heart and sympathetic nature soon 
won their deep love. One thing only troubled 
them, and that was to think that their heiress 
should have had the disgrace of playing on the 
stage! To them, this was a bitter humiliation 
and they were eager to prosecute Signor Altazzi 


98 


CHIQUITA 


for having kidnapped their beloved child. This, 
however, Chiquita strongly opposed, on account 
of her deep love for her dead foster-mother. Only 
on the condition that the d’Espinolas should 
forget the past, would she promise never to go 
on the stage again, so they were forced to give 
in, but they insisted that, having so large a for¬ 
tune coming to her from them, she should keep 
none of the money she had earned by her public 
singing. 

Her share of the profits of these two years 
amounted to a very large sum, but happy to 
yield to their wishes in this respect she divided 
it into two parts, one of which she gave as dowry 
to little Bridget, while the other she spent in 
building and endowing an orphanage in memory 
of Sister Martha, to whose prayers she always 
said she owed more than her life. 

Scarcely a year later, the beautiful Dona Es- 
peranza was happily married to one of the most 
distinguished and influential grandees of Spain. 
She was a very devoted wife and mother, and 
very happy in her family life. Everywhere she 
was enthusiastically received, and her tireless 
charity made her fairly idolized by the poor and 
unfortunate ones of life. Appointed one of the 
Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, she exerted all her 
influence to further God’s glory and help all who 
were in trouble. She did not give up her singing, 


FOUND AT LAST 


99 


but never performed in public except at Court 
by special request of her sovereigns, or at con¬ 
certs for the benefit of some charity or other. 

As these concerts were the only opportunities 
the public now had of hearing her, people were 
willing to pay any price for a seat, and however 
large the sale might be, it was always packed 
to its very limits by a wildly enthusiastic crowd, 
and a magnificent golden harvest was reaped for 
God’s poor. But the lovely young Marquesa 
seemed entirely free from the vanity and love 
of admiration which had devoured the child 
Chiquita and the young singer, Margharita Al- 
tazzi. It had been on the wane for some time 
and seemed to completely die within her on the 
day when, with tears pouring down her cheeks, 
she knelt in loving prayer and thanksgiving on 
the grave of the humble obscure lay Sister who 
had, by offering herself up as a loving holocaust, 
saved this idol of a giddy world from the con¬ 
sequences of her pride, and obtained her true 
and lasting conversion, and her lifelong devotion 
for the loving service of God. 


THE END 







A MOTHER’S HEART 




















FOREWORD 

The author, who is considered one of 
the best writers for children, and who is 
a favorite among them, has given much 
time and effort in preparing this story, 
which is intended to teach a great and 
important lesson, namely the fearful dan¬ 
ger to young people caused by reading 
trashy, if not bad, literature. We know 
you will read each chapter with great in¬ 
terest. 


Young Catholic Messenger . 












A Mother’s Heart 

I 

BACK TO THE FOLD 

In the darkened room, the young mother lay 
dying and her husband was kneeling at the foot 
of the bed, his face hidden in his hands, his 
whole frame shaken with low, heartbroken sobs. 
James Harrison was a good, honorable, kind- 
hearted man, but he had been brought up with 
very narrow, bigoted ideas, and before he had 
married this pretty girlish Elsie, he had made 
her understand clearly that she must choose be¬ 
tween him and her faith. The girl was an or¬ 
phan, she longed for a life of ease and pleasure, 
she yearned for love such as she felt sure her 
lover would give her, and she had found life any¬ 
thing but easy, since she had had to earn her 
own living after leaving the convent school, 
where she had been so lovingly brought up by 
the Sisters. So, after a long struggle against 
grace, she had consented to what her lover asked 
of her. She could afterward go to Church with- 
105 


106 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


out his knowing it, she said to herself, and, be¬ 
sides, she would convert him before long. He 
loved her so dearly he surely could not refuse 
her anything when once she was his wife! And 
with these thoughts she soothed her accusing 
conscience. 

But there could be no blessing on such a mar¬ 
riage, and Elsie’s heart could find no rest. Her 
husband often noticed how sad and preoccupied 
she looked, and rightly guessing that this was 
caused by her regret at having given up her faith, 
he tried to make her forget it by indulging to 
the full her love of pleasure and excitement. For 
a time he spent his money recklessly in parties, 
dinners, receptions, and in taking her out to 
theatres and other places of amusement. Then, 
when he began to tire of this, and found he would 
be ruined if he continued, she became fretful 
and discontented, complained that he was unkind 
to her, and found her only consolation in poring 
over silly novels and magazine stories of the 
trashy kind. She neglected her home, even her 
dear little baby boy, and she made both herself 
and her husband thoroughly miserable. Yet she 
was not bad at heart, only she had turned her 
back on God, and without Him we cannot be 
either good or happy. 

And now she was dying, so young, so fair, so 
helpless, with her three-weeks-old little daughter 


BACK TO THE FOLD 


107 


lying on the cot beside her and her boy a year 
old crying lustily in another room. Poor little 
Elsie! how bitterly she repented of her fault now! 
How she longed for God’s pardon, for God’s love, 
for the comforts of our Holy Faith! 

But she had been a child of Mary, and now, 
in her dire extremity, she cried to her for help. 
Did our Blessed Mother ever turn a deaf ear to 
a repentant child? Ah, no! and even before poor 
Elsie had called to her for help, she had fore¬ 
stalled her prayer by sending to her as nurse a 
fervent, fearless Catholic, who had taken every 
opportunity of speaking to her of God and of 
Our Lady, while doing her very utmost to save 
her life. For the last hour or so the sick girl 
had been lying apparently unconscious, when 
suddenly she opened her soft brown eyes and 
faintly called her husband. Springing to his 
feet he came and bent over her, with a mighty 
effort smothering his grief, and speaking cheer¬ 
ily and soothingly. 

“James,” she murmured entreatingly, “do you 
still love me?” 

“Oh, Elsie, my darling! more than ever!” he 
cried. “There is nothing, nothing I would not 
do for you!” 

“I want you—to grant me—two things—be¬ 
fore I die!” 

“But you’re not going to die, my dearest; you 


108 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


must not think of such a thing. You are going 
to get well and be my joy, and the loving mother 
of our dear children.” 

“No—I know—I’m sure I’m going to die, and 
I want you to send for—a priest—oh! I cannot 
die—like this!” 

He recoiled, and a hard look came over his 
face. 

“You promised—to do—anything!” she gasped. 

“Yes. Well, all right, you shall have your 
wish,” he murmured. “Nurse, will you please 
phone for the priest?” 

A flood of joy passed over the young wife’s 
pale face. 

“Oh, thank you, dearly, James!” she mur¬ 
mured. “Then I want you to promise—that my 
two children—shall be brought up Catholics.” 

The words had come out with an effort, her 
color coming and going, the perspiration stand¬ 
ing in great beads on her forehead, a look of 
piteous entreaty in her dark eyes. “Oh, promise 
—I am dying—I entreat you!” 

Poor James Harrison looked dumb-founded. 
He felt he couldn’t refuse his dying wife’s last 
wish; he was too honorable to give a promise and 
not keep it; and yet, how was he to bring the 
children up as Catholics, when he and all his 
people were Protestants? His wife seemed to 
read his thoughts, for looking up at the sweet- 


BACK TO THE FOLD 


109 


faced nurse, who had just returned from phon¬ 
ing, she gasped, turning towards her: 

“She is a Catholic, she will help you, she will 
mind them—promise—both of you!” and sol¬ 
emnly, earnestly, they both promised, hardly 
knowing how they would be able to carry out 
their vow, but determined to do so. 

After the priest had given the dying mother 
all the last Sacraments and reconciled her com¬ 
pletely with God, he baptized her two children 
by her bedside, and when that was done and she 
had kissed them rapturously, she murmured: 

“Oh, James, thank you—so much. Remember 
your promise! Oh! I am so happy—so happy at 
last—God is so good and—I feel Our Lady’s 
arms around me. She is—taking me—home!” 

A whole year had passed since the young 
mother’s death, and under the loving care of 
nurse Marian and her old mother, poor Elsie’s 
babies had grown and thriven, and had never 
felt that lack of a mother’s love, for nurse Mar¬ 
ian’s heart had gone out to them from the first. 
Their father came constantly to see them, or was 
it to see Marian, who had so generously given 
up her career to care for his orphaned children? 
Anyhow, at the end of a year he persuaded her 
to marry him, and a very loving, devoted wife 
she made. This time he had known better than 
to ask his betrothed to give up her faith; first, 


110 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


because he knew she would never consent to do 
so; and secondly, because, since he knew her and 
her mother, his ideas about the Catholic Church 
had greatly changed and he had overcome many 
of his prejudices. 

A few years after his second marriage, Mr. 
Harrison thought he had heard of a good open¬ 
ing in the West, and they therefore gave up 
their home in Springfield and went to live in 
California. The second Mrs. Harrison’s saintly 
old mother had passed to her reward a few 
months before, and James’ family had never 
quite forgiven him for allowing his children to 
be brought up in what they termed the Popish 
faith, so that the young people had little regret 
in leaving the East. Nobody in their new home 
city knew anything about them, and though in 
course of time three more children came to bless 
their home, no one could have guessed by the 
mother’s behavior that the elder ones were not 
her very own, for she was perfectly devoted to 
them, and they grew to be big children without 
any knowledge of the fact that they had lost 
their own mother. 

This had been their father’s wish, and Mrs. 
Harrison had agreed to it, though at times she 
wondered if they ought not to know about poor 
Elsie and pray for her and love her memory. 
Oddly enough, Donald, the eldest boy, was the 


BACK TO THE FOLD 


111 


most passionately devoted to mother of all the 
children, and Mary was, if anything, her favorite 
girl, besides being more like her in appearance 
than was Constance, her own little girl. 

Mr. Harrison’s venture in the West had not 
turned out as well as he expected and they were 
very far from wealthy, still they were all very 
happy in their pretty little home all embowered 
in roses and honeysuckle. The Catholic Church 
was quite near and so was the Convent of the 
Holy Names, where the four eldest went to school 
and where the Nuns were all so dear, as Mary 
expressed it. 

At the time when our story begins, Donald 
was eleven, Mary ten, Constance eight, dear, 
chubby, little Willie five, and Baby Phoebe two, 
and they were all well grown and merry, and as 
full of mischief and high spirits as healthy chil¬ 
dren ought to be. They were very pious, too, in 
their childish way, and the three older ones went 
to Holy Communion every Sunday and were 
proud to belong to the Confraternity of the Holy 
Angels. From quite little children, Mrs. Har¬ 
rison had taught them to pray constantly for their 
father’s conversion and offer little sacrifices for 
that intention, and they felt sure that some day, 
oh! what a happy day it would be! God would 
grant them that dearest wish of all their hearts. 

If fair-haired, blue-eyed Mary was more like 


112 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


her step-mother in appearance than was brown¬ 
eyed Connie, she was not at all like her in tem¬ 
perament, for though a sweet, lovable child, she 
was excitable, pleasure-loving, and given to 
“moods,” whereas Constance was so conscien¬ 
tious and reliable as a little woman. She was in 
the third grade, and Willie in the first, and as 
these classes let out earlier than the other grades, 
she was trusted to bring her little brother 
home. It was amusing to see with what solici¬ 
tude she did this, and to tell the truth, it was not 
always an easy job, for chubby-faced, round-eyed 
Willie was a regular boy out and out, and began 
to think he was far too much of a man to be 
bossed by a girl. 

One day, as they came out of the Convent, he 
declared stoutly that he was going home by the 
park, because Ted White had got the loveliest 
pollywogs out of the pond there, and he meant 
to get some, too. In vain, poor Connie pleaded 
that it was out of their way; that mother would 
be anxious if they were late; that they hadn’t 
permission to go there, and that he had nothing 
to put his tadpoles in. The first objections he 
simply ignored, but the last rather staggered 
him for a minute. Still, he was too determined 
a little fellow to be deterred by so small a diffi¬ 
culty. Hadn’t he a pocket and two little fat 
hands in which to hold the pollywogs until he got 


BACK TO THE FOLD 


113 


home? So off he trudged toward the pond, and 
was soon uttering shrieks of delight at the sight 
of the innumerable tadpoles of all sizes. He must 
have some of the very biggest, he declared, as he 
squatted down on the slippery cement edge of the 
pond. But catching a tadpole with your hand 
isn’t as easy as it looks, for the squirmy little 
things have a way of darting off or even wrig¬ 
gling out between your fingers. And while Wil¬ 
lie struggled against these difficulties that bossy 
Connie kept saying: 

“Oh! come away, Willie! it’s getting late, and 
you’ll get your feet wet. Come away! and we’ll 
ask Donald to get you some in a bottle.” 

But Willie pretended not to hear and, just as 
he was stretching to get the very fattest, joiliest 
tadpole, his feet slid from under him and he 
flopped plump into the shallow pond all full of 
green slime and frog spawn! Fortunately, it 
was very shallow, and with the help of the dis¬ 
tracted Connie he managed to scramble out, but 
you should just have seen the state of his little 
suit, clean that morning. At first he was in¬ 
clined to cry, but when Connie had wiped the 
streaming water from his face, he exclaimed joy¬ 
fully : 

“I’se got one pollywog, anyhow,” and he in¬ 
sisted on carrying it home in his fat, chubby hand. 

But they were not at the end of their troubles, 


114 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


for, just as they were beginning to cross the 
very dusty road, the tadpole managed to wriggle 
out of its captor’s hand, and Willie plumped 
down on his knees in the road, searching for it 
and crying, “Oh! my pollywog! Fse lost my dear 
little pollywog!” 

Poor Connie, who was in terror lest an auto¬ 
mobile should come down upon them, was vainly 
trying to drag him away, when two beautiful 
collie dogs who were enjoying a grand game of 
tag came tearing full speed round the corner 
and bowled the children over like ninepins. A 
neighbor who was passing by laughingly helped 
them up, and Willie was finally led home howl¬ 
ing dismally, “I’se lost my pollywog! I wants 
my pollywog!” 

Mrs. Harrison cast up her hands in horror 
when she saw the children come in all wet and 
covered with mud and green slime, but she was 
too used to little people’s ways to lose her com¬ 
posure for long, and after hearing the whole 
story, she said fervently: 

“Well, all’s well that ends well, and this must 
end in the bath tub. I thank God and Our Lady 
for watching over my dear children. It’s a real 
mercy that those dogs bowled you over, my dears, 
for if you had stayed in the road much longer 
you might have been run over by an automobile. 
As for Willie, to teach him not to disobey his 


BACK TO THE FOLD 


115 


sister again, he shall stay in bed till his suit 
is washed and dried, and it will be a whole week 
before I allow him to keep any pollywogs.” 


II 


A BITTEK HUMILIATION 

It was going to be mother’s birthday, and the 
three eldest were all excitement over the sur¬ 
prises they wanted to make her. Though not 
exactly poor, they were anything but wealthy, for 
Mr. Harrison’s business had been going badly 
of late, and if his wife had not been such a care¬ 
ful housekeeper and such a hard-working one, 
they would not have been able to make ends 
meet. As it was, they could afford no luxuries, 
and though the children did not realize it, it was 
only by dint of constant little sacrifices and end¬ 
less little economies that she managed to find the 
money to pay for their schooling at the convent, 
where the dear nuns taught them so much besides 
just lessons. With infinite patience they trained 
them in the true love of God and of the Blessed 
Mother, and tried to instill into their hearts the 
virtues of unselfishness, obedience and respect 
for those in authority. 

Mr. Harrison had at first thought it very un¬ 
necessary his wife should go to this expense, 
when the children could just as well have gone 
116 


A BITTER HUMILIATION 


117 


to the public schools. But when he saw the good 
influence the Sisters had over their characters, 
and how they trained them to have pretty man¬ 
ners as well as a strong sense of duty, he com¬ 
pared them in his mind with the public school 
children he knew, and felt that, as usual, mother 
had been perfectly right and that the moral 
training the children got at the academy was well 
worth the extra expense of sending them there. 

Although, as I have said before, the children 
did not realize how many and what great sacri¬ 
fices mother constantly made for them, still they 
did notice that she spent very little on herself, 
and that, although scrupulously neat, she 
scarcely ever had any of the pretty little things 
either to wear or to use that many of their little 
friends’ mothers had. 

So, when they put their heads together to find 
what they could get for her, they thought of such 
heaps of things that they hardly knew what to 
choose. 

“I think what she wants most of all is a sun¬ 
shade,” asserted Donald. “The one she used to 
have is all split so she can’t use it, and I’ve often 
heard her say the sun made her eyes ache.” 

“Oh, I wish I could give her one of those pretty 
little silk neck bows like Mrs. Meeker has!” ex¬ 
claimed Mary; “and her gloves are so shabby, 
too, she’s mended them and mended them. And, 


118 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


oh! what she wants worst of all, I think, is a 
work-basket, for hers is all broken and worn, 
and there’s nothing she uses so much. I wish I 
could get her one of those beauties we saw at 
Meyer’s store the other day, all lined with silk, 
with cunning little pockets!” 

“I bet they cost a lot, don’t they?” asked Don¬ 
ald, knitting his brows anxiously. 

“Yes, two dollars and a half, and I’ve only 
got twenty cents, but I might save a little more 
before mother’s birthday.” 

“I saw a bully sunshade I know she’d like, for 
a dollar seventy-five, but I’ve only thirty-five 
cents,” sighed Donald. 

“I tell you what, Don, why shouldn’t we ask 
daddy if we can’t earn some money somehow,” 
cried Mary, eagerly. “When he knows it’s for 
mother, I know he’ll help us. I think I’ll get 
the work-basket.” 

“And I the sunshade.” 

“And what can I give her?” cried Constance. 

“Oh, well, I think you might get her some 
gloves, Connie. I’ve seen some quite pretty silk 
ones for fifty cents,” answered Mary, condescend¬ 
ingly. 

When daddy was taken into their confidence 
he was very sympathetic. Daddy always was, 
and he quite approved of their plans. He soon 
found that he could give Donald a few little easy 


A BITTER HUMILIATION 


119 


jobs to do in the way of cutting wood, cleaning 
out the barn, helping at the store, and so forth. 
As for the girls, he got them to weed the garden, 
and stamp and gum down the envelopes of num¬ 
bers of bills he was just sending out. For all 
these little jobs he promised to pay them a cer¬ 
tain sum, but not enough for what they wanted 
to buy. 

“The balance,” he said, “I will give you as a 
reward if you bring me back really good reports 
from school at the end of the month.” 

The children were delighted, and all deter¬ 
mined to outdo themselves in hard work and good 
behavior. Donald was always a good, steady 
pupil, but Mary was apt to have ups and downs, 
owing to her rather capricious nature. She was 
much more clever than her brother, but not 
nearly so fond of work, and her love of pleasure, 
her exuberant spirits and talkativeness often got 
her into trouble with dear Sister Mary Immacu- 
lata, much as she loved her teacher. Still, this 
month she had been fairly good so far, and she 
resolved in making a brilliant ending to it, so 
she set to studying with a will instead of reading 
story books up to the last minute, and often even 
in class. This love of reading was a perfect pas¬ 
sion with her just now; the girls called her a 
reading fiend, and she was rather proud of the 
title, though she had been punished time and 


120 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


again for bringing her story book to school, and 
not getting her work done in consequence. But 
for the sake of giving a nice present to darling 
mother, Mary felt she could even sacrifice her 
reading for a while. 

All went well until just a week before the last 
day of the month and ten days before the 
mother’s birthday, when, as ill-luck would have 
it—Mary afterwards thought Satan himself had 
caused this to happen—a schoolmate of hers 
brought her a most delightful book, declaring 
it was just the loveliest thing she’d ever read, 
and she was sure Mary would find it “heavenly.” 
The little girl took it with rather a misgiving, 
and resolutely put it at the back of her desk un¬ 
til it was time to go home, when she packed it 
up with her other books. After tea, when she un¬ 
buckled her strap to start on her home lessons 
for the next day, the story book dropped invit¬ 
ingly on the table, and she thought she must just 
glance at the pictures; then, on turning the 
pages, she saw sentences that were so thrillingly 
exciting that she felt she must just read a little 
further and a little further, and she was horrified 
when all of a sudden she heard mother calling 
her to help get supper ready. I’m sorry to say, 
she answered very grumpily, did her work in an 
unwilling and clumsy way, and thought of 
nothing but getting back to her book. It was 


A BITTER HUMILIATION 


121 


such an exciting story, she thought she must 
finish it as soon as supper was over. It wouldn’t 
take long, and then she’d learn her lessons. 

She was within two pages of the end when 
mother’s loving voice called, “Now, children, it’s 
time to be off to bed,” and to her horror she real¬ 
ized that she hadn’t yet touched her school work! 
She begged hard for a little respite, making up 
a story of a difficult lesson she hadn’t been able 
to finish, and Mrs. Harrison reluctantly gave her 
half an hour more, during which she dashed 
through a composition in the most careless 
fashion. Still, she hadn’t had time even to look 
at her Catechism lesson when she finally went 
to bed, feeling anything but pleased with her¬ 
self, and resolving to get up ever so early the 
next morning and learn her lesson well, for she’d 
always been first in Catechism, and would die 
of shame if she didn’t know it, she said to her¬ 
self. But she’d awake about six, slip on her 
dressing gown and sit up in bed learning that 
Catechism which she put under her pillow in 
readiness, and in this way it would be all right, 
she thought, as she fell asleep. The next thing 
she heard was: 

“Why, Mary! not up yet, and it’s half-past 
seven! Hurry up, child, for you’ll hardly have 
time to dress and take your breakfast before you 
run to school.” 


122 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


“Oh, mother!” she cried in despair, “why 
didn’t you wake me sooner?” 

“I was busy dressing the little ones, dearie, 
but I did call you once and thought you’d heard 
me. Never mind, I think you’ll be able to make 
it in time if you hurry,” answered mother cheer¬ 
fully. 

Yes, but she didn’t know about the unlearned 
Catechism lesson and the absolute necessity of 
getting a good report that month! Mary hur¬ 
ried all she could, but somehow everything went 
wrong—the buttons wouldn’t go in the button¬ 
holes, her hair wouldn’t look right, her bows 
went crooked, her shoe lace broke, and she was 
nearly in tears when she finally rushed down to 
breakfast, bolted her cereal and cup of cocoa, 
seized her luncheon box and book strap, and 
rushed out, even forgetting to give her mother 
the usual good-bye kiss. Donald had gone on 
ahead, that was one comfort, so, as she walked 
along she endeavored to learn that wretched 
Catechism lesson. As a rule she memorized with 
astonishing rapidity, but somehow that day, 
though she repeated the sentences over and over, 
they did not seem to make the slightest impression 
on her perturbed mind, in which the exciting 
story, mother’s present, her monthly report, and 
a hundred other thoughts seemed all jumbling 
up together with these lines on the Sacraments 


A BITTER HUMILIATION 123 

of ‘Extreme Unction and Ordination.” Once 
or twice she had stumbled and almost fallen as 
she went along with her eyes fixed on the book, 
and, at last, just as she was mechanically pre¬ 
paring to cross the road, she was only just saved 
by a shout of warning from stepping right in 
front of an oncoming automobile. And yet, after 
all her efforts, she felt when she got to school 
that she didn’t know her lesson. Catechism came 
first thing after prayers that day, and so she 
would have no further time in which to study 
it! Yes, she managed to put the book so that 
she could see it while kneeling and tried to learn 
it instead of following the prayers, though she 
felt how wrong she was. 

Still, she hoped her neighbors would prompt 
her, or that dear Sister would notice her distress 
and not question her much; but what was her 
horror when there was a tap at the door and in 
came the Rector, Father Quille, accompanied by 
a visiting priest! Father Quille often dropped 
in to examine the children, and generally Mary 
was proud to show him how well she knew her 
Catechism, but this time her heart sank with a 
feeling of shame and despair, as they all rose 
to greet their visitors. 

After introducing the strange priest to Sis¬ 
ter, and chatting for a few minutes on general 


124 A MOTHER’S HEART 

topics, Father Quille turned towards the chil¬ 
dren, saying in his kindly, cheery way: 

“Now we will show Father Meyer how well 
these little people all know their Catechism. 
What is the lesson for today? Oh, I see. Well, 
Mary Harrison, you begin ‘What is the Sacra¬ 
ment of Extreme Unction?’ ” 

Crimsoning up to the roots of her hair, Mary 
got up and endeavored to stumble through the 
first answer, stopped, began again, listening in 
anguish for a helpful prompting, then broke 
down completely. 

“Why, how strange!” exclaimed Father Quille, 
“you are generally our best one at Catechism, 
Mary. Don’t be shy, child, now give me the 
second answer.” 

But the second answer was still worse than the 
first, and Mary, after floundering through per¬ 
fectly senseless phrases, finally burst into a pas¬ 
sion of tears. Father Quille looked distressed, 
for he was fond of children, and little Mary was 
one of his favorites, as she had always been his 
star pupil in his class preparatory for First 
Communion two years previously. 

“Why, surely, child, you can’t be well! Here, 
don’t cry; everybody must fail occasionally. 
Elsie Porter, give me the answer to the first ques¬ 
tion.” 

And Elsie Porter answered perfectly, so did 


A BITTER HUMILIATION 


125 


Donald, so did all the others, and the honor of 
Sister Immaculata’s class was redeemed, so that 
all might have gone well and Mary’s unlearned 
lesson would have been forgotten had it not been 
that she herself was so terribly upset, not only 
by her sorrow at the thought of the bad mark she 
would get, but by her shame and bitter mortifica¬ 
tion at having failed before the two priests. She 
hid her face in her hands and cried and sobbed 
hysterically till the schoolroom rang again with 
the sound of it, and the teachers could hardly 
hear what the others were saying. In vain, the 
Fathers spoke consolingly to her once or twice; 
in vain, Sister Immaculata hurried down to her 
and fairly besought her to be quiet, saying in 
a voice that trembled with her own nervousness: 
“I never thought you would have disgraced me 
like this, Mary Harrison.” Nothing could stop 
Mary’s passionate sobs, and at last Sister had 
to lead her out of the room until she could con¬ 
trol herself. 

How she ever got through that wretched morn¬ 
ing, Mary never could think. Her only recollec¬ 
tion was of her feeling of intense shame and 
remorse, her well nigh despair over her failure 
to get a good report, and her bitter mortification 
at the thought of what Father Quille must think 
of her—Father Quille, for whom she had such 
an intense admiration and veneration. Oh, 


126 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


never, never, thought poor Mary, would she have 
the courage to look into his face again; never 
could she be happy again, now that she had so 
disgraced herself, her class, and even her dear 
Sister Mary Immaculata; for hadn’t Sister her¬ 
self said that she had disgraced her? 

At recreation she slunk away from her school¬ 
mates and went to practice scales on one of the 
most secluded pianos, her tears flowing fast all 
the time her fingers stumbled over the keys, with 
a series of discords which would have sent poor 
Sister Mary Anastasia wild if she could have 
heard them. 

At last it was time to go home, and slipping 
away like a thief in her fear of being spoken to 
in private by Sister Immaculata, she ran home 
without waiting for Donald or a little neighbor 
whom she was generally supposed to look after. 
Even then, she was ashamed to meet her parents, 
ashamed to think they would hear from Donald 
of her fearful disgrace, and she determined on 
going up to her own room and hiding there for 
at least a few hours’ respite before she had to 
encounter her family. Just as she turned the 
corner of the street, however, whom should she 
run up against but her own father, and as soon 
as he caught sight of her flushed face, her swol¬ 
len eyes and deplorable expression, he stopped 


A BITTER HUMILIATION 127 

abruptly and coming up to her, said as he took 
one of her hot hands in his: 

“What is it, my little girl? Have you been 
naughty? Come in and tell father all about it, 
you’ll feel better after that.” And as he said 
the words he seemed to realize all of a sudden 
that when Catholics go to confession they, too 
“tell Father all about it,” and that they have 
still greater reason to feel better after they are 
forgiven hy Him. 


MARY’S ATONEMENT 


With many tears and sobs Mary told of all 
her miserable experience, of her first fault in 
reading the book when she should have been 
studying, of her falsehood to her mother when 
she had asked for that extra half hour, of her 
missing her morning prayer, and then of her 
breakdown and disgrace when questioned on her 
Catechism. Mr. Harrison had taken her on his 
knee and put his arm around her, and while she 
told of her misdeeds she had hidden her face on 
his shoulder. When she dared to look up at 
last, there was no look of anger on his face, 
only one of sorrow, and if she had but known it, 
he was thinking how like the child’s character 
was to that of her poor mother. Sweet, loving, 
good in a way, but overfond of pleasure and ad¬ 
miration, and lacking in self-control. 

“Yes, it has been a bad business, dear, and I 
am ever so sorry my little girl should have so 
disgraced herself,” he answered gently, as he 
stroked back her tangled curls. “All that there 
is to do now, Mary, is to make up for the past 
128 


MARY’S ATONEMENT 129 

by doing much better in the future. To begin 
with, you had better tell mother all about it.” 

“Oh, but the secret,” cried Mary, “and I tried 
so hard until I got that wretched book.” 

“You needn’t mention the secret at all. You 
would have had just cause to be grieved and 
ashamed of your conduct, even if there had been 
nothing to win by your good marks. Then that 
book is what I want to talk to you about. Read¬ 
ing is a very innocent thing in itself, or at least 
it may be very innocent, and it may be one of the 
worst things on earth.” 

Mary looked up, her eyes wide with astonish- 
ment. 

“Yes, but you are too young to understand 
all the evil it can cause. Still, you see by today’s 
experience what trouble it may get you into. 
Whenever you are so engrossed with your read¬ 
ing that it makes you neglect your duties; when¬ 
ever you can’t put down your book cheerfully 
and quickly when you are called or feel you 
ought to be doing something else, then reading 
is distinctly had, however good the book may be 
in itself. A love of reading thus over-indulged 
becomes a sinful passion like drink or gambling, 
or any other thing in which we act against our 
conscience and lose control over ourselves. You 
will have to struggle hard to conquer this over- 
excessive love of reading, and you must begin 


130 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


doing so now, while you are still a little girl. 
I cannot, of course, give you the last dollar you 
need as a reward for your good report this month. 
You have lost that, but you can win the dollar 
if you are brave enough to do three things.” 

“Three things! It’s like in fairy tales, isn’t 
it? What are they, daddy?” answered Mary, 
rather anxiously. 

“They are all things that will cost you a great 
deal of effort and strength of will to do, and it 
is this strength of will that I am especially anx¬ 
ious to teach you to have. First, you will give 
me that book and promise me upon your honor 
not to open a story book till after mother’s birth¬ 
day. Secondly, you will go before supper to 
Father Quille and confess to him frankly how it 
was you so disgraced your class.” Mary crimsoned 
and the tears started to her eyes. “Thirdly,” 
added her father in a very firm yet kindly voice, 
“tomorrow morning you will apologize to Sister 
Immaculata for your behavior.” 

“Oh, daddy! Oh, I can’t, I can’t!” sobbed 
Mary. 

“I’m sorry, then, for I see you have very little 
real courage, Mary, and in that case you will 
have to do without your dollar and mother won’t 
get her work-basket. I thought you loved her 
enough to sacrifice your pride in order to give 


MARY’S ATONEMENT 


131 


her pleasure. Anyhow, go and tell her every¬ 
thing now, my little girl.” 

And with a kiss and rather a sad sigh, he put 
her down and went out of the house, while Mary 
slowly made her way to mother’s room and there 
sobbed out all her sad story with many expres¬ 
sions of regret. 

Mother was even more gentle and sympathetic 
than father had been, but she, too, seemed anx¬ 
ious and especially distressed to think Mary 
should have told her an untruth about her lesson 
and have wilfully neglected saying her prayers. 

“Who knows if, instead of doing that, you had 
prayed like a good girl and asked Our Lady 
to obtain your forgiveness and help you through 
with your lesson, perhaps she would have done 
so, and all this would not have happened,” she 
said gently. “Besides, dearest, instead of sin¬ 
ning by telling me an untruth last night, why 
didn’t you own up to your fault? Then I would 
most certainly have called you in time for you 
to do your lesson and would have helped you 
learn it, if necessary. Never mistrust mother 
and mother’s love, dear! Has it ever failed you 
when you have confided in me?” 

“Oh, no, no, mother! you are always so dear 
to me, but oh! father wants me to do three things, 
and I can’t, I just can’t do them all.” And then 


132 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


she told of what Mr. Harrison desired her to 
do. 

“I know they will seem hard to you,” said 
mother, pressing the child more tenderly to her 
breast, “but, dear, couldn’t you do them for the 
love of Jesus? Think of all He suffered for you!” 

Mary hung her head and sobbed. 

“And then, Mary, dear, you might also offer 
them up as a sacrifice for your dear father’s con¬ 
version. You know how we have all longed and 
prayed for it. Remember how sad it is for him 
not to have our beautiful faith, which would so 
help him in his many trials and difficulties. 
Poor, kind, patient father! Think how lovely 
it would be to have him come to Church with 
us and go to the Sacraments and be an earnest, 
zealous Catholic, as I’m sure he would be. Out 
of love for Jesus and for father’s sake can’t you 
make the effort, dearest?” 

Mary looked up with streaming eyes, then 
kissing her mother passionately, she murmured: 

“I hadn’t thought of all that—for Jesus, and 
father, and you, mother, I’ll try to do all three 
things.” 

When father came home he found the story 
book lying on his dresser and heard that Mary 
had gone out to see Father Quille. Poor little 
Mary! how her heart did thump, to be sure, when 
she got to the Rectory and rang the bell! And 


MARY’S ATONEMENT 


133 


still more so when the rather severe looking house¬ 
keeper opened the door and seemed almost scorn¬ 
ful to think of such a small person having the 
pretension of disturbing “Father,” especially 
when he had a visitor. However, Mary stam¬ 
mered that her father, Mr. Harrison, had sent 
her to tell Father Quille something “very particu¬ 
lar.” So, rather reluctantly, the lady led her into 
the parlor, where she sat on the very edge of a 
rather high chair, looking the picture of misery. 
Have you ever sat at the dentist’s waiting for 
your turn, with the pleasant prospect of having 
a tooth out? Well, then you can have some faint 
idea of what Mary went through while she wait¬ 
ed in the Rectory parlor, thinking every minute 
that she really must slip out and run away. Still 
she stayed, for what seemed to her hours, until 
she heard the well-known firm step, and Father 
Quille came in, saying in his usual kindly way: 
“Well, little Mary, and what is your message, 
my child?” 

“It—it isn’t a message, but father sent me to 
tell you all about why I was so naughty this 
morning,” gasped Mary, looking like a criminal 
waiting to be executed. Then, encouraged by 
his kind words and genial smile, she poured out 
her whole story, with great trouble keeping back 
her tears. 

“Your father and mother were both quite 


134 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


right/’ he answered in his grave, gentle manner, 
“It is true that the love of reading, though it 
may be a very good thing in moderation, can also 
be one of the greatest dangers to the soul, and 
if, as your mother said, you had stopped to pray 
for help when you felt you were doing wrong, 
or had even said your usual prayers attentively, 
I have no doubt the greater part of all this would 
never have happened. Then, too, when you had 
failed to answer me, your fit of crying w r as 
brought on chiefly by wounded pride, so that 
your father was very wise to give you some 
humiliating things to do as your punishment. 
I am glad that the thought of doing them for 
the love of Jesus and as an offering for your 
father’s conversion has enabled you to perform 
your penance gravely, so far that quite makes 
amends for the faults you committed, and I feel 
sure it has given pleasure to Our Lord’s Sacred 
Heart, Now come with me to the Church; I 
will give you absolution, and tomorrow you can 
go to Holy Communion. Then, when you have 
the dear Jesus in your heart, you will have the 
strength to do the last part of your penance. 
Don’t be afraid, little one,” he added, laying his 
hand caressingly on her shoulder, “it won’t be 
as hard as you think.” 

And after hearing her confession and giving 
her absolution, he knelt for a while before the 


MARY’S ATONEMENT 


135 


Tabernacle with her, and then took her into 
the Rectory again and gave her a beautiful holy 
picture of Our Lord carrying His Cross. He 
even kept her for a few minutes longer to chat 
cheerily about Donald and Constance and the 
babies. 

Altogether, he was so kind, so fatherly, so 
comforting, that in spite of the ordeal Mary 
skipped for joy as she ran home after her inter¬ 
view. 

Her father noticed the look of peace and hap¬ 
piness in the child’s face as she came in and he 
said with a smile, “Well, Mary, Father Quille 
wasn’t so very terrible after all, was he?” 

“Oh, no, daddy, he was just as dear as he 
could be, and he gave me absolution and told me 
I might go to Holy Communion tomorrow, and 
he’d pray for me at his mass, and oh! one does 
feel so lovely when one has been to confession 
and told God everything!” 

“It’s like telling father and mother everything, 
only more so, isn’t it?” he answered with a 
rather embarrassed laugh. “Yes, I can under¬ 
stand how relieved one must feel after it. I’m 
very glad you went, dear, and I am really happy 
to see you have some courage when you make the 
effort.” 

The little girl had feared that Donald would 
tease or reproach her for her conduct that morn- 


136 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


ing, but, on the contrary, he was quite affection¬ 
ate and never alluded to the matter in any way. 
So, after all, when Mary went to bed that night, 
after saying her prayers, she was feeling far hap¬ 
pier than she could have believed possible in the 
earlier part of the day. 

The next morning mother woke her early, and 
with a loving kiss and a murmured “Pray hard 
for us all, dear, and especially for father’s con¬ 
version,” she sent the child off to Mass, and when 
Mary came back looking half tearful, though hap¬ 
py, she found a dainty breakfast awaiting her, 
and both father and mother gave her a specially 
loving kiss when she left for school, accompanied 
by Donald and Constance who chatted merrily 
to her all the way. But oh! when she got within 
sight of the convent how her heart did beat. She 
grew now pale, now red, and good-hearted Don¬ 
ald noticed it and murmured in a gruff though 
hearty way: 

“Don’t be scared, kid, you’ll be all right.” 

Poor Mary! she felt anything but all right as 
she took her place in the ranks and, to the sound 
of a lively march, walked into the schoolroom 
and up to her place. Then came prayers, and 
never, perhaps, had she more earnestly prayed 
for help. The minute they were over she sprang 
to her feet and going quickly up to Sister’s desk 
she said in a gasping voice: 


MARY’S ATONEMENT 


137 


“May—may I speak to you, Sister?” 

“Certainly, dear,” answered Sister, kindly. 

Poor Mary could hear her heart thumping, and 
she felt at first as if the words ivouldn’t come. 
Then at last she burst out: 

“Please, Sister, I want to beg your pardon— 
for having—been so naughty, and—having 
disgraced you yesterday.” 

“Well, I was sorry and disappointed in you, 
Mary, but I quite forgive you, dear. I don’t 
think you could have been well,” said Sister, tak¬ 
ing one of the small cold hands in hers. 

“It wasn’t that,” panted Mary, getting redder 
and redder. “I’d spent my time reading a story 
when I ought to have been preparing my lessons.” 
In spite of her, she stopped with a sob and had 
to brush the tears from her eyes. 

“That was bad, but I’m sure you won’t do it 
again. We’ll forget all about it, Mary,” 
answered Sister, kindly. 

“I apologize,” she repeated with a break in 
her voice, then hurriedly, in a dazed sort of way, 
she began making her way back to her seat. As 
she passed her brother, however, he leaned 
towards her and said in a loud whisper : 

“Bravo, kiddy! it was real plucky of you to 
do that. You showed your grit and I’m proud 
of you.” And then, they never knew who began 


138 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


it, but the whole class started clapping her, and 
Mary sat down again with her eyes full of tears 
but her heart full of joy and gratitude. 


IV 


THE CRIMSON SUNSHADE 

“Mother! mustn’t it be dreadful to have a 
stepmother!” exclaimed Mary a few days later, 
while preparing for school. “There are some 
children at the convent that have one, and they 
say she’s ever so unkind to them but pets her 
children like everything.” 

“She must be a very unfair, unkind woman 
then,” answered Mrs. Harrison, “but I know 
many stepmothers who love their stepchildren 
just as they do their own. There’s Mrs. Maloney, 
for instance.” 

“Are some of them her stepchildren? I 
thought she was their really and truly mother. 
Still it can’t be the same thing! Oh, mother, 
darling!” she added, throwing her arms around 
Mrs. Harrison’s neck, “if you were to die and we 
had a stepmother I’d hate her.” 

“That would be very foolish and very wrong, 
too, dear, for we Catholics have no right to hate 
anybody. But now, don't think of such things, 
but run away to school or you'll be late.” 

139 


140 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


Mrs. Harrison watched the children go with a 
sinking heart, as she wondered whether her little 
Mary would continue to love her as she did now, 
when she discovered the truth, as she must in¬ 
evitably do some day. She had looked so fierce 
when she spoke of hating her stepmother! Yet 
surely she could never hate her, who had always 
loved her so dearly and done all she possibly could 
for her! A feeling of dread and foreboding 
seemed to grip at her motherly heart, and it was 
not until she had knelt long in tearful prayer 
before her crucifix that she recovered some degree 
of peace. 

On the eve of her birthday, Mr. Harrison saw 
the school reports added up the amounts earned 
by each child, and gave them the money he had 
promised. Indeed, to Donald, whose report, es¬ 
pecially for conduct and application, was perfect, 
he gave three whole dollars, and to little Con¬ 
stance, whose marks were equally good, he gave 
a dollar instead of fifty cents he had promised. 

“I am delighted to see,” he said with a smile, 
“how earnestly you have striven to do better 
than usual for your dear mother’s sake. I know 
that Mary has tried hard, too, on the whole, 
though she did have one failure, therefore, though 
I can’t give her the reward for her report card, 
I am glad to say she has earned it in another 
and perhaps more difficult way. And now, my 


THE CKIMSON SUNSHADE 


141 


dears, yon can go and do your shopping. But 
mind and have it quite understood that you 
expect to be able to exchange the things if they 
prove unsatisfactory, when you get them home, 
and then let me see them at once so that you can 
have time to go back with them if I do not think 
they are just what mother would like.” 

After some discussion the children decided 
that Mary and Constance should take little Wil¬ 
lie with them and do their shopping together, 
while Donald went to do his choosing by himself. 

Dear, dear! how important the little people did 
feel, especially Connie, with a fine crisp dollar 
bill and fifteen cents in her little purse. Never 
did she remember having had as much. 

“Do you think I’d better buy both, a pair 
of gloves and a tie, for mother?” she asked Mary, 
as they hurried along, “or shall I spend all the 
money on the gloves?” 

“Well, it would be lovely to see mother with 
a pretty neck bow, wouldn’t it?” answered Mary. 
“She so seldom has pretty things!” 

“She gives all the pretty things to us, doesn’t 
she?” said Constance, as she skipped along in 
her delight. “Don’t you think we’ve got just 
the dearest mother in the world, Mary?” 

“Of course we have,” assented Mary, emphat¬ 
ically, “but now let’s think about what we’re 


142 A MOTHER’S HEART 

going to buy. Here’s the store. We’ll look at the 
work-baskets first.” 

She had no trouble in selecting her present, 
for one day when she had been out with her 
mother they had seen it in the shop window, 
and Mrs. Harrison had much admired the soft 
moss green tint of the lining and the convenient 
shape of the basket. So that was soon settled. 

Next came the choosing of Connie’s gift, and 
that was not so easy. She had been looking with 
longing and admiration at a beautiful pair of 
best quality silk gloves at a dollar, when the sales¬ 
lady brought forward some lovely tan shades of 
kid gloves, a special bargain, being sold that day 
for a dollar and a quarter. 

“Oh, buy those, Connie! They’ll be just splen¬ 
did for mother,” cried Mary rapturously. “I’ve 
got ten cents left and I’ll give them to you to 
make up the quarter.” 

The little girls were delighted and the gloves 
had been chosen, powdered, and were going to 
be wrapped up, when chubby-faced Willie ex¬ 
claimed anxiously, “And what am I doing to dive 
to muvver?” 

Poor wee Willie! True, they never thought 
of him, and yet he could not be allowed to be 
distressed by being left out of the present-giving. 
Already his blue eyes were filling with tears at 
the thought, and the little girls couldn’t bear 


THE CRIMSON SUNSHADE 


143 


to see him disappointed, so, though it was rather 
hard to have to give up those beautiful kid gloves, 
good-hearted Connie decided to take the silk ones, 
and with their remaining quarter they finally 
bought a pretty, tasteful mauve neck bow which 
the saleslady very obligingly put into a pretty 
box and wrapped in tissue paper, making it look 
much more important. 

But if Connie had had to make a little sacrifice, 
that was nothing to the adventures that befell 
poor Donald. To begin with, as he was hastening 
eagerly towards the umbrella maker’s where he 
had seen the tempting sunshades, he made a 
short cut through a rather lonely alley, and there, 
with his head bowed down upon some empty 
packing cases, was a boy of about his own age 
sobbing as if his heart would break. 

“Hullo, kid! Anything the matter?” he in¬ 
quired boy fashion. 

The child looked up, a poor, puny-faced, half- 
starved looking little fellow, whom he recognized 
as one of his schoolmates, one of the numerous 
ones (though none of the other children knew 
it) whom kind Sister Superior not only educated 
for nothing, but often helped with food and 
clothing. 

“Why, Bob! is that you? What’s up, kiddo?” 
he asked, more anxiously, as he looked at the 


144 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


blanched face of his comrade, which was fairly 
quivering with distress. 

For a few minutes Bob couldn’t speak; two 
or three times he attempted to do so, but broke 
down into a despairing sob. At last he gasped: 

“I’ve lost a whole dollar; they’ll think I stole 
it! I daren’t go back!” 

“Go back where? Home? Why, whose money 
was it? Your mother’s?” 

“Oh, no! Wish it had been! It was the boss’ 
money. I’d just got a job carrying goods ter 
customers and this was my first day, and I had 
ter go far and they paid me a dollar. Then I 
thought I’d make a cut through that there park, 
and just as I was gittin’ back to the store I 
puts my hand in my pocket and the dollar ain’t 
there, and I went all the ways back and looked 
and looked and couldn’t find it, though I prayed 
hard to St. Anthony,” he added, breaking down 
again. 

“Are you sure you didn’t put it in another 
pocket?” 

“Oh, yes; I’ve looked and looked! There was 
a big hole in me pocket, see! And, oh dear; they’re 
sure to give me the sack, or maybe send for the 
cop, and what will mother say! I wanted so bad 
to help her, and we was that glad I’d got a job, 
and now the very first day!” 


THE CRIMSON SUNSHADE 


145 


“Couldn’t your mother lend you the dollar till 
you can earn it back?” 

“Mother! Why, this morning she says to me, 
says she ‘Bob, you’ll have to make shift with this 
bit of bread, for I ain’t got nothing but a dime 
in the house and that’s got to get the whole day’s 
meals for yer all,’ ” and Bob again dropped his 
head on the packing cases, his whole frame 
shaking with sobs. 

Donald hesitated. His father had given him 
the money to spend for mother, but then he had 
earned it, and besides, he was too good-hearted 
a boy to leave a comrade in such distress, espe¬ 
cially as he knew how woefully poor his school¬ 
mate’s family was, with a sick father, a sadly 
overworked mother, and five children, of whom 
Bob was the oldest. So with a deep sigh of 
regret Donald opened his purse and taking out 
one of his hard-earned dollars he handed it to 
the boy, saying: 

“Here! cheer up, old fellow; I can let you 
have a dollar, only don’t tell anybody, and hurry 
off with it to your boss, else he’ll wonder what 
you’re about.” 

“Oh, can you let me have it, really! Ain’t you 
good, though! I don’t know how ter thank yer! 
But sure Fll pay yer back some day. It must 
have been Our Lady as sent you to me! My! 
but ain’t you rich!” 


146 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


“Oh, we’re not rich,” answered Donald, blush¬ 
ing, “but I’ve been saving up to buy mother a 
birthday present.” 

“And you spared me all this out of it? You 
are a brick. Wish I could do something for yer,” 
he added gratefully as he turned to go. 

“You can pray for my intention,” called Don¬ 
ald, who was very anxious for his father’s con¬ 
version. 

Both boys hurried off in different directions, 
and Donald soon arrived at the umbrella shop. 
There he was fairly dazed with all the varieties 
of beautiful colors he had to choose from. To be 
sure, he was now limited as to price, but still 
among the cheaper sunshades there were very 
brilliant ones, and Donald’s love of bright colors 
was a joke in the family. Among them was a 
fearful scarlet parasol with an orange border 
that took his fancy very much, until he remem¬ 
bered the fate of a red and orange tie he had 
once bought. Then he was smitten with a vivid 
green one with mother-of-pearl handle, after 
which, remembering his mother’s love for quiet 
colors, he nearly bought a pretty pale mauve 
one, but was advised by the salesman not to 
do so. 

“These mauves are all very well if the lady 
buys a sunshade every few weeks, one for each 


THE CRIMSON SUNSHADE 147 

dress, but they don’t last no time; they fade that 
quick.” 

“Oh! I don’t think mother has bought a new 
sunshade since Connie was born, and she’s 
seven,” he blurted out, then blushed to have re¬ 
vealed the family poverty. 

At last the umbrella maker brought out a 
parasol that so dazzled the delighted Donald, that 
he forgot all about mother’s likings and decided 
upon it at once. It was of the most vehement, 
almost offensive shade of magenta crimson and 
had a very long gilt handle. Altogether it was 
by far the “loudest” thing in the shop, and it 
cost a dollar seventy-five. After having paid for 
it, Donald had just ten cents left, and these he 
resolved upon spending on chocolate creams for 
Willie to give. He had had the sunshade 
wrapped up, and finding it rather awkward to 
carry, he was holding it against his shoulder 
like a gun, when on his way to the candy store 
he met a pretty fair-haired little girl, accom¬ 
panied by a small but beautiful long-haired ter¬ 
rier with great soft brown eyes. He looked up 
at Donald in a friendly way as he passed and 
wagged his tail when the boy spoke to him. 

“Isn’t he a dear?” said the little girl with a 
smile, evidently proud her favorite should be 
noticed. 


148 A MOTHER’S HEART 

They had hardly passed him when Donald 
heard a fierce, loud growl, followed by piercing 
screams and howls, and, turning around, saw 
that a great bulldog had rushed upon the poor lit¬ 
tle terrier and was rolling him over and over, 
while his pretty mistress shrieked with fright and 
distress. Forgetting everything for the time ex¬ 
cept his anxiety to protect the little dog and its 
owner, Donald flew back and began belaboring the 
great brute of a bulldog with his precious sun¬ 
shade, which he used so vigorously that the big 
dog beat a hasty retreat, while the little one 
scrambled up again and rushed into his little 
mistress’ extended arms. 

“Oh, you are a dear, brave boy! Thank you so 
much for saving my dear Frisky!” she exclaimed 
with tears of gratitude in her pretty blue eyes. 
“That great dog would have killed him if it 
hadn’t been for you!” 

Donald felt a happy glow within him at 
the thought of having been able to do two deeds 
of kindness on his way, but somehow as he walked 
along he began to have misgivings about his 
sunshade. He couldn’t exactly picture mother 
as using such a showy thing. Just before reach¬ 
ing home he met the two girls and Willie, all 
very triumphant over their purchases, and to¬ 
gether they went in to Mr. Harrison’s study. 


THE CRIMSON SUNSHADE 


149 


Mary and Constance’s gifts were duly seen and 
approved of. Then their father said to Donald: 

“Now, my lad, let’s see your present. I hope 

you chose a quiet colored-. My stars! but 

that’s a blazer!” he exclaimed with a laugh, as 
the boy unwrapped the sunshade. Then seeing 
the look of disappointment on the child’s face, 
he added: “I’m afraid, Don, it would be a very 
trying color for your mother’s weak eyes, and 
the handle doesn’t look a convenient one. Let 
me see it close.” 

Then, to their horror, as he went to open it, 
the handle came out into his hand. 

“Why, Donald! what’s this?” he cried. “They 
must have sold you a damaged parasol.” 

“It was all right in the store,” stammered 
Donald, the tears starting to his eyes. “And, oh! 
when I think of it, I must have broken it when 
I hit the dog, and now, after all, I’ll have no 
present for mother!” he added, bursting into 
tears. 



V 


A JOYFUL* DAY 

Donald was a boy who prided himself on 
being manly, so he hardly ever cried and his 
sisters were so distressed at seeing his grief that 
they both rushed to him, saying: “Never mind, 
Don; you can give our things to mother; we’ll 
just give them from us all.” 

Donald was more touched than he cared to 
show, but his father said kindly: “I don’t think 
there will be any need for that. It is only the 
stick that is broken and that can easily be re¬ 
paired, so I’ll go to the store with you and see 
what can be done. But, my dear boy, what in 
the world made you beat a dog with your prec¬ 
ious gift?” 

Brushing back his tears, Donald gave a thrill¬ 
ing account of the bulldog’s attack, and of the 
little girl’s fright and gratitude, and his sisters 
exclaimed as he had done that, he was a dear, 
brave boy. 

“I see — I understand,” said Mr. Harrison. 
“Well, my lad, I’m glad you were able to save 
the little girl’s pet, though, of course, it’s annoy- 
150 


A JOYFUL DAY 


151 


ing about the sue shade. I expect you’ll have to 
pay for the repairs before the man will exchange 
it, but, as I see, it only cost $1.75, so you must 
still have some money left. Why did you choose 
such a cheap one when you had plenty of money? 
Surely, nothing was too much to spend for 
mother! How much have you left?” 

“Nothing; I—I spent my last ten cents on 
candy for Willie to give. I didn’t think he had 
anything,” stammered Donald, reddening up to 
the roots of his hair. 

“Well, but what about your other dollar? Did 
you lose it or spend it on yourself? I insist 
upon knowing, Don.” 

Poor Donald ! He wasn’t ashamed of what he 
had done, still he was half shy of telling it, but 
when he finally blurted out the whole story, his 
father grasped his hand heartily, saying in a 
moved voice: 

“Quite right, my boy; it was noble of you to 
do it and I’m sure mother will prize the knowl¬ 
edge of your charity to your schoolmate more 
than she would have done the finest sunshade 
in the world; but now, don’t look so distressed. 
Come with me and we will see what arrange¬ 
ment we can make about your present. You 
certainly have had an afternoon of adventure!” 

When they arrived at the store, the umbrella 
maker began by making great difficulties as to 


152 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


changing an article which had been damaged, 
and he and Mr. Harrison had been arguing about 
it for some minutes when a little dog came run¬ 
ning into the shop, and Donald exclaimed: 

“Why, that’s the wee doggie I saved by break¬ 
ing the sunshade!” 

“Were you the boy that saved my little girl’s 
Frisky from that fierce bulldog of Mr. Brown’s?” 
exclaimed the umbrella maker. “I’m real grati¬ 
fied to you then, for that great brute of a bull 
might have killed my little girl’s pet and hurt 
the child, too. I’ll have Mr. Brown prosecuted 
if he lets that dog of his out again. He isn’t 
safe.” 

“Yes, it was on that fierce dog’s back that my 
lad broke his sunshade,” said Mr. Harrison with 
a laugh. 

“Then sure he may change it for any other 
he likes in the store and I won’t charge him any¬ 
thing for the repairs neither,” cried the um¬ 
brella maker. 

So to Donald’s infinite relief they were able 
to choose a fine sunshade of a pretty shade of 
soft dark green, with a sensible natural wood 
handle that Mr. Harrison said he was sure his 
wife would like. It was a far more expensive 
one, but the man would not hear of their paying 
any more for it. 

“No, no,” he said with a laugh, “you may con- 


A JOYFUL DAY 


153 


sider that a present from grateful Frisky.” 

At last the longed-for day arrived, and to make 
it more perfect it happened to be Saturday, so 
that they were able to enjoy the whole day with 
mother, and they had arranged with their father 
that they would give their presents at breakfast. 
Before that, however, the three eldest had got 
up real early to go to the first Mass with Mrs. 
Harrison and offer up their Communion for her. 
This proof of their love had made her very happy, 
and it was with hearts beating with unusual 
fervor and joy that they all hurried back to get 
breakfast. Then they found that dear, kind 
daddy had been beforehand with them, for he 
had not only dressed the little ones, but laid the 
cloth, cooked the meal and brought down all 
the presents. Oh! how delighted all the children 
were to give them! All the more so, that in 
almost every case they had been earned at the 
expense of some trouble and sacrifice. Mrs. Har¬ 
rison was charmed with them all, and touched 
almost to tears when she heard of all the chil¬ 
dren’s efforts and adventures. She pressed Mary 
and Donald to her heart with special tenderness 
and praised Connie, too, for her unselfish kind¬ 
ness to her little brother. 

“As it happens,” she said, “I am delighted you 
did it in more ways than one, dear, for in this 
warm climate I far prefer silk gloves to kid 


154 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


ones. I have only been wearing the old kid 
ones because I had no others, and this sunshade 
is just what I wanted, and so is the beautiful 
work-basket, and, Willie, darling, mother likes 
your pretty tie so much.” 

“And now I will offer my humble gift,” said 
Mr. Harrison with a smile, “and I hope it will 
give you as much pleasure as the children’s, 
mother,” and he handed her a rather bulky parcel 
which was found to contain a pretty, dark brown 
tailor-made suit, at the sight of which all the 
children danced for joy, exclaiming: 

“Won’t it be just lovely to see mother in a 
nice new dress, and won’t she look pretty in it, 
dad?” 

“There is something in the jacket pocket,” half- 
whispered Mr. Harrison in answer to his wife’s 
heartfelt thanks, and with beating heart she 
pulled out a slip of paper on which she read 
this message: 

“As I know nothing could give you greater 
happiness, my dear wife, I promise henceforth 
to accompany you to Mass of a Sunday and to 
inquire further into the beautiful religion that 
makes you such a perfect wife and mother. 

“Your James.” 

“Oh, James,” cried Mrs. Harrison, as she fell 
into his arms, her eyes full of tears and joy, 


A JOYFUL DAY 


155 


“nothing could have given me such happiness; 
you are right about that. Oh, it is so dear of you. 
I am so grateful, so delighted!” And when, later 
on in the day, she told the children of their 
father’s promise, she added, as she kissed Mary 
tenderly: “Who knows if my little girl’s sacrifice 
of the other day, so lovingly offered for her 
father’s conversion, has not procured us all this 
great blessing and joy?” 

After the giving of the presents, they sat down 
to partake of daddy’s breakfast, and it was such 
a festive one—eggs and bacon, toasted corn flakes, 
and flapjacks with maple syrup, with strawber¬ 
ries and cream as a wind-up! Willie asked: 
“Can’t it be buffdays evelly day?” and though 
they all laughed about it, the children very much 
wished it could. 

Then, just as they had finished up helping 
mother wash the dishes, they had another de¬ 
lightful surprise, for daddy drove up to the door 
with the big business auto and they were told he 
was going to take them all on a picnic out in 
the country. Mother knew of it beforehand and 
had prepared a nice luncheon to take with them, 
and the children all shrieked and danced in their 
excitement. Just as they were getting ready to 
start mother said gently: 

“Don’t you think, dears, as we are going to 
have such a lovely day ourselves, it would be 


156 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


only right to try and give a little pleasure to 
some poor people who have a very hard time?” 

“Oh, yes, mother! We’d love to,” they all 
cried in chorus. “What can we do?” 

“Well, I’ve put together some of the things 
that were left from breakfast, and added a few 
other eatables and some nice oranges and a pot 
of jam, and I thought it would be a good idea 
to take them to Bob’s people. Think of seven 
of them only having had a dime’s worth of food 
between them yesterday!” 

“Wasn’t it dreadful,” cried Mary, “and the 
children have no toys, nothing, scarcely any 
clothes.” 

“Well, we haven’t very much and we mustn’t 
keep father waiting, but if each one of you could 
find some little thing to take for one of the chil¬ 
dren, we might leave a ray of sunshine in that 
dreary home on our way to the picnic.” 

A few minutes later the children came run¬ 
ning down with gifts for the Murphy’s. Donald 
had one of his favorite story books, a most thrill¬ 
ing tale of adventures, for Bob. Mary had a 
fair-sized doll, which, if a little shabby, still 
had her charms in spite of having lost a foot. 
Constance had a small darky doll and a rather 
dilapidated picture book, and Willie was tri¬ 
umphantly carrying an old wooden horse, which 
had lost both tail and mane and one eye, but was 


A JOYFUL DAY 


157 


still, in his eyes, a very precious and lovable 
object. And, oh! if you could have seen the joy 
of the poor household when their auto stopped 
at the door and they brought in their humble 
gifts! As to poor Mrs. Murphy, she was so over¬ 
come with thankfulness at the sight of the food 
that after a few fervent and incoherent words of 
thanks, she fell into a chair, covered her face in 
her hands and sobbed for joy. Then when she 
could recover herself sufficiently to speak, she 
told Mrs. Harrison that she hadn’t a scrap of 
food or a cent of money in the house that morn¬ 
ing, and that though she felt she must trust in 
God’s love and that of His Blessed Mother, it 
had seemed as if her prayers for help would 
bring no answer, until they came driving up to 
the door, “and sure you was God’s messengers 
a-bringin’ of us help in our distriss,” she added 
gratefully. 

The children were overjoyed with their toys, 
the poor sick father smiled to see their pleasure, 
and altogether when the Harrisons left, it was 
with the feeling that there is no joy on earth to 
be compared to that of helping our poorer 
brethren. Then they had a glorious drive past 
orange and lemon orchards, laden with golden 
fruit and balmy with the scent of the rose hedges, 
while ahead of them the long ridge of the Sierra 
Mountains was of all shades of blues and pur- 


158 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


pies, and all around them the birds sang ex¬ 
ultantly, as if they, too, felt that this was indeed 
a happy, beautiful world. 

After driving along for a considerable time 
they began to go up the mountain side, and at 
times the road seemed so narrow and ran so close 
to the edge of a precipice that Mrs. Harrison 
fairly held her breath, but was much relieved 
when they stopped at the opening of a beautiful 
canyon. Her husband told them all to jump out 
and each one take part of the luncheon things, 
as they were going to walk the rest of the way. 
He backed the machine into a safe place, chained 
and padlocked it to be safe against joy riders, 
and then they all started up the beautiful little 
valley with its steep mountain sides rising on 
each side of them, covered with a dense growth 
of grand old trees and sage, and other bushes 
which gave out a delicious spicy odor. At the 
bottom of the canyon leaped and gurgled a clear 
little mountain stream, making here and there 
regular little waterfalls as it fell down great 
boulders of granite, or sending up a shower of 
spray as it dashed against impeding rocks. 
Everywhere around there was a profusion of 
wild flowers of every color — tall scarlet lark¬ 
spurs, yellow monkey flowers, white pearly ever¬ 
lastings, and occasionally beautiful Mariposa 


A JOYFUL DAY 


159 


poppies with their exquisite crinkly white petals 
and deep golden centers. 

Then came the excitement of fording the 
stream, which was pretty wide just there. There 
were a fair number of good-sized boulders which, 
though wet from the spray, were really out of 
the water, and these served as stepping stones. 
Willie, who had insisted on carrying something, 
had been entrusted with the box of sandwiches, 
and when his father wanted to help him over 
the stream he refused, scornfully saying: “Me 
big boy, me zump just like Donald,” but, his legs 
were shorter, his aim less sure and once more he 
slipped plump into the water with a tremendous 
splash that drenched both Connie and their 
mother, who were just near him. 

“Oh! the sandwiches! Save the sandwiches!” 
cried Donald, while tender-hearted Connie 
screamed: “Oh! our Willie will be drowned! 
Save him, save him!” 

In an instant, Mr. Harrison had picked up the 
child, who was unhurt, but not a little fright¬ 
ened and roaring lustily, until mother said cheer¬ 
ily: “Why, Willie, did you try to catch another 
pollywog!” at which recollection his tears turned 
to laughter. While his parents were doing their 
best to wring out his clothes, Donald rescued the 
sandwiches, which were beginning to float down 
the stream. Fortunately they were in a stout 


160 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


shoe box and its moisture was only just sufficient 
to keep them nice and fresh, Mrs. Harrison de¬ 
clared. As for Willie, it was so warm and his 
little summer suit was so light that it soon 
dried in the sun, and when once he had got over 
his fright he thought the adventure rather amus¬ 
ing. After they had wandered about for an hour 
or two picking wild flowers, getting roots of 
ferns and lilies for mother’s garden and enjoying 
everything, they began to set out the things for 
the lunch in a delightful spot by the side of the 
rippling water. Mr. Harrison had been carry¬ 
ing a fair-sized tin bucket in which were packed 
a bottle of lemon juice, a piece of ice and a goodly 
packet of sugar. After taking these out, he 
partly filled the bucket with the sparkling moun¬ 
tain water and made the most delicious lemon¬ 
ade, while Mary and her mother spread the 
luncheon out on a large tablecloth. Donald ar¬ 
ranged rugs all around for them to sit on, and 
Connie and Willie sat on a grassy mound at some 
little distance watching a pair of wood thrushes 
feeding their young in a nest. 

All of a sudden the two children began to 
utter the most piercing shrieks of: “A snake! A 
snake! He’ll kill them. Help! daddy, mother, 
help!” 

Everybody rushed to their assistance in alarm, 
and, to say the truth, poor Mrs. Harrison’s knees 


A JOYFUL DAY 


161 


shook under her at the thought that she would 
perhaps find one of her darlings struck by a 
deadly rattlesnake. On reaching them, however, 
they discovered that it was only one of the bril¬ 
liantly colored king snakes, splendid with his 
stripes of yellow and black, who had crawled up 
the tree and was just devouring one of the young 
birds, while the others crouched in terror at the 
bottom of the nest and the parent birds circled 
around their deadly enemy uttering cries of 
anguish. Quick as thought, Donald seized a sharp 
stone and flung it at the snake, which, with 
lightninglike rapidity, slipped down the tree 
trunk and disappeared in the underbrush, while 
the parent birds flew down on the nest with 
chirps of delight. 

It was some time before the whole Harrison 
family recovered from this scare, and the creepy, 
crawly feeling the sight of the cruel snake had 
given them, though daddy assured them he was 
perfectly harmless to human beings. At last, 
when they had seen the parent thrushes feeding 
their young once more, the children were com¬ 
forted and all started to go back to the luncheon. 
Suddenly Donald, who was running on ahead, 
gave an exclamation of horror, followed by a 
peal of laughter, crying: 

“Look, mother, look! It’s too funny!” and hur¬ 
rying forward they saw a party of squirrels 


162 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


which had taken possession of the luncheon table, 
and were having a high time. One was sitting 
up on his haunches holding a small doughnut in 
his front paws and evidently enjoying it hugely, 
another was sampling the sandwiches, while 
others were partaking of strawberries, nuts and 
bread, and the little thieves looked too cunning 
for anything with their bushy tails standing up 
like great plumes behind their heads, while their 
bright, beady eyes sparkled with enjoyment. Mr. 
Harrison clapped his hands and gave a shout, 
and they all disappeared as if by magic, while 
the children ran forward in some consternation 
to see if there was anything left for them. Yes, 
thank goodness! there was plenty, so much in¬ 
deed, that when, after a short time, the squirrels 
and chipmunks came running up towards them, 
as if to ask for their share, the picnickers threw 
them piece after piece, until they grew so bold 
as to come and take food out of the children’s 
hands. The Harrisons were so delighted with 
the pretty creatures that they quite forgot the 
incident about the snake, and when they finally 
drove home towards evening, they all declared 
that they had never in all their lives had a more 
perfectly happy day. 


VI 


THE CHURCH TOWER 

The Harrison children were all pleasant, 
cheery tempered and sociable, so they had many 
friends among their schoolfellows and neighbors; 
indeed, Mary was inclined to be almost too uni¬ 
versal in her friendships and to associate with 
children who were her inferiors both as to breed¬ 
ing and manners. Donald, however, had fewer 
friends, but these he chose carefully, and they 
became fast chums, so much so that many re¬ 
mained faithful to him all through life. Among 
his most intimate ones were two boys, very un¬ 
like in character—Eugene Walsh, a merry, rol¬ 
licking little fellow, plucky and fond of adven¬ 
tures of all kinds; and Philip, a quiet, studious, 
rather nervous lad, whom the other two teased 
not a little for what they called his sissy ways, 
though they really liked him ever so much. These 
three were altar boys, and not a little proud of 
it, too, for Father Quille was very particular as 
to the behavior of those he admitted to this 
honor, and Sister Mary Regina, who trained 
them all, was prompt at expelling any who were 
163 


164 A MOTHER’S HEART 

careless or showed themselves unworthy in any 
way. 

The church was a pretty stone building, for 
the most part densely covered with climbing vines 
which added greatly to its picturesque appear¬ 
ance and completely covered its tall, square bell 
tower. This tower, with its four windows, was 
the much-loved haunt of numbers of snowy white 
pigeons, which added a touch of beauty to the 
sacred edifice, and reminded one of the doves 
so often portrayed in the catacombs and churches 
of old as emblems of peace and love. 

The Harrisons lived on the outskirts of the 
town and had a fair-sized garden, in which the 
children were allowed to have many pets. Donald 
had rabbits, Constance guinea pigs, and Mary 
had a little bantam rooster, with a tremendously 
loud, shrill crow, and three cunning little hens 
who laid real eggs which, if they were rather 
small, were very delicious all the same. Pretty 
often these were sold for sittings of eggs or the 
little hens were allowed to bring up a little 
brood, and most charming the wee energetic baby 
chicks certainly were. Still, there were times 
when Mary had some eggs to spare, and these 
were given, with much joy, to father or mother, 
or Connie, or one of her brothers as a great treat. 

Donald did occasionally sacrifice one of his 
beloved bunnies for the family table, but they 


THE CHURCH TOWER 


165 


were so tame and it grieved him so much to have 
them killed that he generally managed to sell 
them or give them away when they became too 
numerous. After a time, he began to wish he 
could have some pretty white pigeons like those 
around the church, and one day he screwed uj 
his courage to ask Father Quille if he would give 
him a pair. 

“Well, I think it would be rather difficult to 
catch them,” answered Father, kindly, “but there 
are plenty of nests in the tower, and if you get 
the Sacristan to let you in some evening, you 
can catch either young or adults when they 
have gone to roost. You may take as many as 
you like, for we have more than we need about 
the place.” Then the good priest went off on a 
sick call and forgot all about the boy and the 
pigeons. 

Donald rushed home in great excitement that 
day to tell his parents of Father Quille’s per¬ 
mission, and asked if he might keep some doves, 
as he called them. 

“Well, yes,” answered Mrs. Harrison; “I see 
no harm in it, my boy; but they will be some 
expense to you for food, and a good deal of 
trouble besides, for you will have to build a 
dovecote for them first, and then it will need 
cleaning out frequently.” 

“Oh, I won't mind that, daddy. I’d love to 


166 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


do it, and then I could often give mother some 
of the squabs, and I know you love squab pie, 
don’t you, dad?” 

“Yes, but if we don’t get more of them than 
we do of your rabbits, Don, I don’t think I will 
get fat on squab pie,” laughed his father. “Still, 
you may keep pigeons, my boy; only, before you 
get them, you must build a proper dovecote for 
them at the bottom of the garden. I’ll tell you 
how to set about it.” 

Donald was delighted, and for several weeks 
he worked at it after school and on Saturdays, 
with the frequent help of Eugene and Philip. 
It took longer than they had thought it would 
to finish, but at last Mr. Harrison declared it 
was quite all right and a very creditable piece of 
work for three such young boys, and the next 
thing was to get the pigeons. It was now late 
summer, and, though the weather was still very 
warm, the days were short and it became dusk 
some time before the Sacristan closed the church. 
This the boys determined would be the best time 
to catch their birds, so one evening they warned 
the old man of what they were going to do, so 
that he might not lock them up in the church. 
He was a queer, rather grumpy old fellow, 
though really very good-hearted, and he hated 
to think of any of what he called his birds being 
taken by “them rascals of boys.” Still, when 


THE CHURCH TOWER 


167 


told Father Quille had given permission, he 
couldn’t well refuse, so he thought he’d go off 
and do some errands while they were about it, 
and in that way he’d avoid seeing any of his 
beloved doves being injured or distressed. 

The church was empty, the stairway up to the 
tower dark and steep, and so each boy had pro¬ 
vided himself with a good-sized lantern, and to 
the great amusement of his comrades, Philip 
came solemnly carrying a large red one, such as 
is used as a warning when a part of the street 
is under repair. Up the steep stairs the three 
crept as quietly as they could so as not to scare 
the birds, and before entering the tower they 
shaded their lanterns with their hands. Hardly 
had they gone in, however, when the birds, who 
were not yet really settled for the night, began 
fluttering about, beating against the walls, al¬ 
most flying in the boys’ faces and altogether cre¬ 
ating quite a scene of confusion. 

“See! Here are some nests; we might as well 
take some of the squabs,” cried Eugene. 

“They are too small; I shouldn’t know how to 
feed them,” objected Donald. “Let’s look further 
on.” And the three boys wandered around, dis¬ 
cussing and hesitating, while waving their lan¬ 
terns over their heads the better to see the nests, 
and the pigeons flew in and out of the windows 


168 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


in their alarm, like white ghosts in the now dark¬ 
ening night. 

Sister Mary Josephine happened to go out 
upon the porch facing the church—the Convent 
was just on the other side of the street—and 
stood aghast at the sight of bright, flickering 
lights in the church tower. Running swiftly to 
the community room, she exclaimed, breathlessly: 
“Superior, Sisters! Come and see! The church 
tower is on fire! !” 

The church on fire! ! With a cry of consterna¬ 
tion, all the Sisters rushed on to the side porch, 
and there, sure enough, were moving, flickering 
lights to be seen at the tower windows. 

“I hardly think they are red enough for fire, 
though,” said Superior, thoughtfully. “Don’t 
you think they must be reflections from some of 
the city lights?” 

“How could they be, Superior? And then, we 
should have seen them before! And, besides, 
look how red they are getting now!” panted the 
excited Sisters. 

Sure enough, the nearest window now seemed 
brilliantly illuminated by a dancing red light, 
and one of the Sisters rushed to the telephone 
to beg Father Quille to come over and judge for 
himself. In an incredibly short time he had 
joined them, together with his assistant, and 


THE CHURCH TOWER 169 

they were both as much alarmed as the Sisters 
had been. 

“Don’t you think some one may have gone up 
there and turned on the lights?” asked Sister 
Superior, who was still the most doubtful of 
them all. 

“No, there are no lights in the tower, to begin 
with, and, besides, the church must be closed at 
this time,” answered Father Quille. 

“That white, flickering light to the side there 
is just such as might be made by sparks from 
cross wires,” put in Father Ross, “and the red 
light looks as if some of the beams were begin¬ 
ning to blaze.” 

The more they looked the more they were con¬ 
vinced that the church tower must be ablaze, and 
one of the Sisters flew to the telephone to call 
up the fire department. 

“Come with me; we must hurry to get out the 
Blessed Sacrament and put it in a place of 
safety,” cried Father Quille to his assistant, as 
he fairly ran down the stairs. 

“Oh, and after that, couldn’t you save some of 
the statues?” cried Sister Mary Josephine, while 
Sister Superior and several of the others hastened 
to the Chapel to pray before the Tabernacle. 

The fire station was close by, and, even before 
the Sisters had phoned, a call had already been 
turned in by some people who had seen the lights 


170 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


from the street; so before the Fathers could make 
their way through the crowd which had already 
assembled, two fire engines came dashing up and 
the fire ladder was seen coming in the distance, 
while bells clanged, and the excitement prevailed. 

Springing from their engine, the men of the 
first hose wagon rushed into the church, just as 
the people in the street began to exclaim in as¬ 
tonishment that the lights had gone out sud¬ 
denly. The fact was, the boys had heard the 
fire-engine bells, and eager to see what was up, 
they had seized the squabs nearest at hand and 
prepared to hurry out into the street. When 
the anxious firemen rushed up the tower stairs, 
therefore, they met three very much astonished 
small boys, two of which were carrying three 
or four good-sized squabs in their arms, while the 
third lighted them down with one of the lan¬ 
terns, and swung from his left hand the other 
two, which had been extinguished. 

“What have you been doing, you mischievous 
young rascals? Where’s the fire? Here, you 
below, these must be the culprits, seize them,” 
cried the chief, as, together with a number of 
his men, he dashed past them, only to find the 
tower room in darkness and the birds still flut¬ 
tering about wildly. 

“Why, there’s no fire at all! It was just these 
young rascals’ lanterns,” cried the chief, as half 


THE CHURCH TOWER 


171 


an gry, half laughing, he hurried down again to 
find Donald and his comrades in tears at having 
been seized upon by some of the firemen as sus¬ 
pected fire bugs. 

“I see, it’s all a mistake after all,” laughed 
Father Quille. “It’s only some of the choir boys 
who were after the pigeons,” and he apologized 
to the men for having called them out for nothing. 

“It certainly did look uncommonly like a fire,” 
they all admitted. “We saw it the minute we 
got out of the station and thought we'd only be 
just in time to save your church.” 

“That comes of those yer rascals stealing our 
doves,” exclaimed the Sacristan, who had just 
come back and was only too glad to give in¬ 
formation to the dense crow T d that had assembled 
in no time around the building. 

“Stealing—then if there hadn’t been a fire, 
there had really been robbers, burglars, house¬ 
breakers at work,” ran through the assembled 
throngs, and one of those officious people who 
are always so eager to meddle with what doesn’t 
concern them hastened to a nearby store and 
telephoned for the police. They, too, were close 
at hand, and the next thing Father Quille knew 
he found himself confronted by two burly police¬ 
men dragging towards him the terrified boys and 
asking him if he wanted to give them in charge. 

“Give them in charge? Why, certainly not!” 


172 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


he exclaimed indignantly. “They were doing no 
harm. They are three of my choir boys, and 
now I think of it, about three weeks ago I gave 
them leave to go up in the tower and take some 
of our pigeons. Don’t be frightened, my lads; 
no one shall harm you; only another time just 
let us know when you are going to wave red 
lanterns about on the premises.” 

So with a great deal of laughter and joking 
over the double false alarm that had been given, 
the crowd dispersed, the Sisters went back to 
their evening devotion, and the boys went home 
carrying with them the young pigeons which had 
been the innocent cause of so much excitement 
and commotion. 

Donald was very successful with his pigeons, 
and they increased and multiplied so fast that 
not only did Mr. Harrison have plenty of squab 
pies, but from time to time Mrs. Harrison made 
one of her very nicest, which Donald proudly 
carried to Father Quille or to the Sisters, who 
found them delicious. 

Still the story of the lights in the tower re¬ 
mained one of the jokes of the neighborhood, and 
especially of the Convent, for a considerable time, 
and Donald was often teased about it and told 
that when he started his dovecote, he had felt 
obliged to call in the whole fire department and 
police force to inaugurate it. 


VII 


NEW SCHOOLFELLOWS 

Over a year had passed since last we saw the 
Harrisons, and though it had been a happy one 
for the children, it had been a very tryingly 
anxious one for the parents, for business seemed 
worse and worse, and in spite of Mrs. Harrison’s 
clever management they had had to retrench, and 
give up many little comforts and simple pleas¬ 
ures. Poor mother! she often looked pale and 
weary nowadays, especially since the new baby, 
Francis, had come to them, and even the children 
could not but see that she was harrassed and 
overworked. Still she never complained; on the 
contrary, she was always the same sweet, loving, 
smiling mother, equally tender and sympathetic 
with all the children. Donald did his utmost to 
help her in every way he could; he was such a 
mother’s boy, every one said. Little Connie also 
did her best to be useful, but Mary, though she 
was sweet and affectionate, was anything but 
anxious to do any work about the house or to 
help with the little ones. Bright, clever, pretty 
and taking though she was, Mary was the one 
173 


174 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


about which her parents felt the most anxiety, 
on account of her love of self, and love of ease 
and pleasure which seemed to have grown in 
her of late, making her so like her own mother, 
her father thought with a sigh. 

Another of her failings which considerably 
troubled them, was her intense sociability and 
love of conversation, which caused her very often 
to make friends with many of the least desirable 
girls at the Convent. When school opened again 
after the summer holidays that year, there were 
among the newcomers two girls who were to have 
not a little influence on Mary’s future life. One 
was Jessie Symonds, a clever, ambitious, rather 
stuck-up girl, who took a dislike to Mary from 
the first, chiefly, I fancy, because she found her 
at the top of her class and was determined to 
outdo her. The other was Isabel Presscot, a 
rather pretty and pretentious little miss, whose 
parents were very well off and who seemed to 
think she was conferring an immense honor on 
the Convent by gracing it with her presence, 
especially as she was not a Catholic. The Sis¬ 
ters had admitted her rather unwillingly, for 
there was a sly, deceitful expression on her pretty 
face, her handsome, violet blue eyes never looked 
you in the face, and her haughty, supercilious 
manner was almost insulting. Still, her family, 
though utterly lacking in any religious beliefs. 


NEW SCHOOLFELLOWS 


175 


was highly respectable, and there seemed no 
adequate reason for refusing a good-paying pupil, 
so the kind Sisters hoped they might influence 
her for good, and determined to watch pretty 
closely to see she did not lead any of her school¬ 
mates into evil. 

Isabel from the very first took quite a fancy 
to Mary, and determined to have her as a chum 
and confidante, while Jessie lost no time in show¬ 
ing her animosity and dislike. A few days after 
the opening of school, therefore, Mary was talk¬ 
ing to her mother about her new schoolmates, 
and, of course, mentioned these two. 

“I don’t like Jessie Symonds at all,” she was 
saying, “and I’m sure she just hates me, though 
I’ve never done anything to her, you know, 
mother. She’s just horrid mean, and she says 
such spiteful things to me—but isn’t it funny, 
she comes from Springfield, Mass. Wasn’t that 
where we used to live, mother?” 

“Yes,” answ r ered Mrs. Harrison very unenthu¬ 
siastically, for the same feeling of dread and 
heartache that she had had once before seized 
upon her at the mention of the name. “You were 
born there, dear, and so were Donald and Con¬ 
nie. I don’t remember hearing of those Symonds, 
but then, Springfield is a large city, and people 
don’t know each other in such places unless they 
have some business or other connections. The 


176 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


best way to avoid having quarrels with her, dear, 
is to speak to her as little as possible, and when 
you do so, to be careful to be sweet and polite 
to her. Then if you have the opportunity of 
doing her any little kindness, don’t fail to do it.” 

“Oh, mother! I don’t see why I should be kind 
to a girl that’s so horrid to me. Isabel has noticed 
it and she says she wouldn’t stand it, if she were 
me. I love Isabel! She’s just darling and she 
says she’s taken such a fancy to me. Her people 
are quite rich and have a dandy limousine, and 
she comes in it every morning. But I’m so sorry 
for her, mother, for she’s very unhappy. Just 
fancy! She’s got a stepmother and she says 
she’s a horrid vulgar woman and so cruel to her, 
though she pets her own children like anything.” 

“I don’t think that Isabel can be a very nice 
little girl or a ladylike one, or she wouldn’t speak 
in such a way of her stepmother, especially to 
an almost total stranger like yourself,” answered 
Mrs. Harrison. 

“Oh, but, mother! I’m her friend, she says, 
quite her dearest friend already, and she says 
we must be chums.” 

“My dear! One can’t make dear friends in 
about three days, and I do not wish you to have 
too much to do with this little girl till I know 
a little more about her. Is she a Catholic?” 

“No-o-o, mother,” answered Mary reluctantly, 


NEW SCHOOLFELLOWS 


177 


“but she’s ever so dear and so pretty, and so 
beautifully dressed, and she gives me lots of 
candy even during study hour.” 

“What! In school time! That is forbidden, 
isn’t it? I’m afraid this must be a very spoilt, 
and possibly a disobedient and deceitful little 
girl!” 

“Oh, no, mother; she’s anything but spoilt! 
She says her stepmother never gives her any¬ 
thing, hardly enough to eat, and sets her father 
against her, and Isabel says she just hates her 
and I don’t wonder. She says she hated her the 
very first day she saw her.” 

“Then I don’t winder her stepmother does not 
love her, but she can hardly be as bad as the 
child makes out. Didn’t you say Isabel was 
beautifully dressed and came in an auto, and 
had candy to give away? That does not seem 
much like not having enough to eat. Now, Mary, 
dear, remember, until I know something more 
about this Isabel Presscot, I forbid you to have 
much to do with her. I will take the first op¬ 
portunity of seeing Sister Superior, for friend¬ 
ships, even little girls’ friendships, have too much 
influence on one’s life to be undertaken lightly.” 

Mary felt aggrieved, and was inclined to be 
rebellious, but the next day she was too much 
taken up with Jessie Symonds to think much 
of Isabel. This was Wednesday and on the fol- 


178 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


lowing Friday girls of her class were to write 
a prize composition paper on General Grant, 
and all the previous year Mary had been head 
of her class. She knew that Jessie intended to 
outstrip her and she was determined she should 
not do so, so as soon as the subject had been given 
out the little girl thought of nothing but work¬ 
ing it up, and even her recreation hours were 
passed in poring over encyclopedias and other 
reference books. When she got home she spoke 
to her mother about it, and Mrs. Harrison, who 
was a highly educated woman, and who had 
known some of the Grant family pretty inti¬ 
mately, helped her very much by telling her 
a number of interesting anecdotes about the Gen¬ 
eral’s life, and advising her how to plan and 
write out her composition. The papers had to 
be written out in class on Friday, and each 
girl had prepared a number of notes to be looked 
over at the last minute. After recess on that 
eventful morning Sister Theodora, in whose class 
she now was, announced that she would give a 
quarter of an hour for looking over the notes, 
after which she would give the signal for them 
to begin writing their compositions. When Mary 
put her hand in her desk to look for hers, she 
found to her consternation that they were gone. 
In vain she searched among all her books and 
papers, there was not a sign of them and yet, 


NEW SCHOOLFELLOWS 


1713 


she was sure she had left them there before go¬ 
ing out to the playground. 

“Mary Harrison,” called Sister sharply, “what 
are you doing there with your head in your 
desk all the time?” 

The little girl looked up, her eyes swimming 
in tears. “Please, Sister,” she said, “I was look¬ 
ing for my composition notes and—they’re gone! 
I’m sure I left them there when I went out for 
recess,” 

“Perhaps you thought you did, and you took 
them out with you carelessly,” answered Sister 
kindly. “Run and see, dear, only be quick about 
it.” 

But search as she might, poor Mary couldn’t 
find the notes and finally she went back to her 
seat with a feeling of despair and anger. Some¬ 
body must have taken them and now that horrid 
Jessie Symonds would probably be first in com¬ 
position! It was maddening, and Mary’s tears 
were falling fast when Sister gave a call to at¬ 
tention, then said sternly: 

“Now let all papers, books and things be put 
back into your desks, and stand up while I 
bring you round the sheets on which to write 
your compositions.” 

As she came up to Mary’s desk, she stopped a 
minute and said encouragingly: 

“Don’t fret, Mary. I know you’ve worked the 


180 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


subject up carefully and you have a splendid 
memory, so you are sure to do well in spite of 
your loss, dear.” 

This comforted Mary a good deal, still it was 
quite with a feeling of despondency that she was 
about to start work, when she remembered what 
mother had told her about that catechism les¬ 
son in which she had failed. It was not her fault 
this time if she was at a disadvantage, and after 
a heartfelt prayer to Our Lady, her courage re¬ 
turned; she remembered all her mother’s helpful 
suggestions and most of what she had read up, 
for, as Sister had said, she had a very retentive 
memory and she was soon so engrossed in her 
paper that she forgot everything else. 

That afternoon after luncheon, Sister Theo¬ 
dora announced she was going to read out the 
winners’ names in the composition, and all the 
girls held their breath as she very deliberately 
sat down and took up the papers. 

“By far the best, especially in the way of group¬ 
ing and presenting the subject matter, is the paper 
by Mary Harrison,” she began. “There is 
another paper that is strangely like hers in the 
way of matter, in fact, almost identical, except 
that Mary’s contains a number of interesting 
anecdotes on General Grant’s private life which 
are not to be found in any of our books of refer* 


NEW SCHOOLFELLOWS 181 

ence. Had you any mention of these in your 
lost notes, Mary?” 

“No, Sister,” answered Mary, who was smil¬ 
ing and flushed with happiness. “It was mother 
who told me all those yesterday evening. She 
was acquainted with many people of the Grant 
family, and had heard all those things about him 
from them.” 

“I see. You are a lucky girl to have such a 
mother in a hundred ways, Mary. Well, there 
is no doubt as to who gets first prize. It is 
Mary Harrison and I congratulate you all the 
more heartily for keeping your place at the head 
of the class, dear, as you were put at an unfair 
disadvantage by someone who did a mean and 
despicable action of which Sister Superior has 
been made acquainted. The next prize is won 
by Ethel Barnes, the third by Loretta Bailey,” 
and so Sister went on enumerating names with¬ 
out mentioning that of Jessie Symonds who, 
after all her boasting that she would surely take 
the first place, was apparently among the num¬ 
ber of those whose compositions were said to be 
too poor to deserve notice. 

When school let out, the radiant Mary was 
standing among a group of her admirers and 
receiving their congratulations, while she re¬ 
peated with pride her account of all her mother 
knew about the Grants. 


182 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


Just then Jessie Symonds came passing by 
and, maddened by her anger and mortification, 
she hissed out to Mary: 

“You needn’t be so proud about your mother, 
as you call her, even if she did know the Grants, 
for she’s no mother of yours, nothing but your 
stepmother!” 

“How dare you say that! It isn’t true!” cried 
Mary, vehemently. 

“Isn’t it, though? I know better. My people 
knew all about yours in Springfield, and mother 
says this Mrs. Harrison is nothing but your step¬ 
mother, and they’ve always kept it dark about 
your real one because she was nothing but a 
foundling, and they were ashamed of her.” 

“It isn’t true! It’s a wicked lie! I’ll tell Sis¬ 
ter Superior what you said!” screamed poor 
Mary, bursting into tears. 

“There is no need. I heard it all myself, and 
I’m more shocked than I can say to think that 
any girl in this school could possibly say such 
spiteful and untrue things to another,” said 
the Superior, coming forward and taking the 
poor sobbing Mary in her arms. “I was coming 
to look for Jessie Symonds with whom I have to 
have a word. I only wish I had been in time 
to prevent this outrage. Don’t trouble over this, 
Mary, dear. Come with me and Sister Dominica 
will give you something to calm you. You other 


NEW SCHOOLFELLOWS 


183 


girls go home, all but Jessie Symonds. You go 
back to your class room and wait there with 
Sister Theodora until I come.” 

Never had kind, gentle Sister Superior spoken 
so sternly, never had she looked so troubled, and 
the girls all scattered on their way home with the 
feeling that something very grave was taking 
place. What passed between Sister Superior 
and her new pupil they never knew, but never 
again was Jessie Symonds seen within the walls 
of the Convent of the Holy Name. 


VIII 


THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 

A short time later, Mary rushed into the 
house; her hair disheveled, her eyes swollen with 
crying, her whole frame quivering as she cried 
brokenly: 

“Mother! mother! say it isn’t true! Say I’m 
your own girl, mother!!” 

With a low moan of pain, Mrs. Harrison 
clasped the trembling, weeping child in her arms, 
exclaiming: 

“O, my Mary, my dearest, do not grieve! You 
will always find a mother’s love in me, my dar¬ 
ling little girl. There’s no one I love more dearly 
than you, dear.” 

“But am I really truly yours, mother?” wailed 
the child. “Oh! say you are not my stepmother! 
Say I’m your own girl!” 

Mrs. Harrison’s tears were choking her as, 
covering poor Mary’s face with kisses, she soothed 
and comforted her, and then finally said: “I 
took you when you were only three weeks old, 
my pet, and have loved you as if you were my 
own ever since. None of my children are dearer 
184 


THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 185 


to me than my Mary, dearest, and God and Our 
Lady who see my heart know that I speak the 
truth.” 

But Mary was inconsolable. Never, she 
thought, could she be happy again, never would 
life be the same any more, now that she found 
the mother she had so loved was not her mother 
after all, but was one of those hateful step¬ 
mothers Isabel had been talking to her about. 
Yet mother had always been so loving, so dear 
to her, it seemed impossible she should be a step¬ 
mother ! 

Donald came in just then and when he ex¬ 
claimed at finding them in such grief, Mrs. Har¬ 
rison thought it best to tell him everything, add¬ 
ing, “but Eve had you both ever since you were 
babies and God is my witness I could not love you 
more if you were my own, my dear children.” 

The boy was rather upset at first, then he 
looked up with a brave smile and said, as he 
kissed Mrs. Harrison: 

“It seems hard to know you are not our very 
own, mother, but still it needn’t make any dif¬ 
ference for I’m sure you’ll always love us, and 
as for Mary and me, we ought only to love you all 
the more for having always been so dear and 
loving to us, when we weren’t really your chil¬ 
dren.” 

“What about Connie? Is she really your very 


186 A MOTHER’S HEART 

own?” asked Mary, with a twinge of bitter jeal¬ 
ousy. 

“Yes, dear, but I repeat it, she can never be 
dearer to me than you are. So long as I live, 
you will always find a mother’s love and indul¬ 
gence in my heart, both of you. I am ever so 
sorry you should have heard of it in this dis¬ 
tressing way, my poor Mary. Your father and 
I had been talking over the matter and we meant 
to tell you this very evening.” 

“That girl said,” sobbed Mary, “that you were 

ashamed of my mother, that she was a-a 

foundling!” 

“That is perfectly untrue,” answered Mrs. 
Harrison. “Your mother was a very sweet and 
charming woman, of very good family. She was 
an orphan and was brought up in a rather ex¬ 
pensive convent, where her education was paid 
for by a wealthy aunt who died soon after your 
mother’s marriage, leaving her fortune to chari¬ 
ties. Now, don’t grieve any more, Mary, dearest. 
As Donald so truly says your knowing this need 
make no difference in our lives and you will soon 
get used to the idea and wonder why it dis¬ 
tressed you so much at first. Put on your hat, 
my pet, and we three will go to make a visit 
to the Blessed Sacrament before dinner.” 

As Mrs. Harrison had said, Mary might have 
soon got used to the idea and forgotten her grief 



THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 187 


over this matter, if it had not been for her un¬ 
fortunate friendship with Isabel. Her new 
friend flattered her, pitied her, made her out 
to be a martyr to her stepmother’s unkindness 
because she had to help a little in the house, 
and was not allowed to roam about at will. The 
Sisters had found out Isabel in numerous false¬ 
hoods, and were constantly complaining of her in¬ 
solence and insubordination, and they warned 
Mrs. Harrison against letting Mary associate 
with her. Both her father and mother strictly 
forbade her to continue to do so, but, encouraged 
by her “chum,” Mary told herself that Mrs. Har¬ 
rison had no right to order her about and watch 
her as she did, and, although the two girls were 
kept as much apart as possible at the convent, 
they arranged all sorts of clandestine meetings 
together, during which they talked volubly over 
their supposed wrongs. In order to do this, Mary 
had to invent quite a network of lies, pretending 
that she had forgotten her book at school, or 
that one of the Sisters had given her an errand to 
do, or some such thing, and hurrying to the end 
of the Presscots’ garden, where, at a given sig¬ 
nal, Isabel came down to meet her. The garden 
was surrounded by a hedge and had a heavy 
wooden door which was locked, but that didn’t 
trouble them much because Isabel knew where the 
key was kept and would either let Mary into the 


188 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


garden or slink out herself into the street, which 
was an almost deserted one. 

Nothing makes one more unhappy than deceit 
and an uneasy conscience, and Mary, once so 
gay and sweet-tempered, seemed to be growing 
irritable and morose. She was sullen with her 
stepmother, she kept aloof from her daddy, and 
she quarrelled with her brothers and sisters, 
even with Donald, who had always been her es¬ 
pecial chum. She neglected her bantams, she 
was lazy over her studies, she was disagreeable 
with the little ones, the only one she still 
noticed and petted being the new baby, Francis. 
Her parents and the kind Sisters could not think 
what was the matter with the child, and feared 
she must be sick or else that she had never over¬ 
come her sorrow at discovering that she had a 
stepmother. Poor Mrs. Harrison! She certainly 
had a hard time now, for Mary resented every 
remark or advice she gave her and became more 
and more irritable, disobedient and almost in¬ 
solent. Many were the bitter tears the poor 
mother shed at the foot of the Tabernacle and 
her prayers for her erring little girl were almost 
continual. 

This had been going on for many months and 
they were beginning to feel as if they’d lost the 
bright loving Mary of old, when God sent her a 


THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 189 


punishment which, for a time at least, made 
her repent of her ungrateful conduct. 

All of a sudden Isabel left off coming to school 
and after a few days Mary became quite rest¬ 
less and anxious about her. It had been part of 
the little girls’ deceit to make a show of indif¬ 
ference to each other when in school, for they 
knew the Sisters were very anxious to prevent 
any intimacy between them, therefore Mary was 
afraid to ask Sister Theodora why her friend 
was absent, and Isabel was so far from being 
popular with the other girls that when she ques¬ 
tioned some of them about it, in what she strove 
to make an indifferent tone, they answered scorn¬ 
fully that they didn’t know and didn’t care, in 
fact they wished she’d never come back at all— 
stuck-up thing!” 

For the first four days Mary had found no 
way of escaping notice sufficiently to go to the 
Presscots, but on the fifth, after coming home 
with Donald and Connie, she boldly told her 
mother that Sister Theodora had asked her to go 
with a message to a woman living quite in 
another part of the city, and though Mrs. Har¬ 
rison felt rather astonished at this, the child 
seemed so positive, she did not like to prevent 
her doing so. Mary began by starting in the 
direction she had mentioned, then turning down 
a side street she made her way to the back of 


190 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


the garden at the Presscots’ house and gave the 
peculiar sharp whistle which was their signal 
to each other. She had to repeat it several times, 
and it was only just as she was preparing to give 
it up and go home, that she heard a rustling in 
the hedge and heard Isabel say in a gasping un¬ 
dertone : 

“Wait a minute, the door is padlocked, but I’m 
getting through the hedge,” and a few minutes 
later she emerged on to the street, torn, di¬ 
sheveled, and panting from her exertions. It 
seemed to Mary that she was very pale, but that 
might have been simply the result of her struggle 
with the hedge. As soon as she was free, she 
fairly threw herself upon Mary, clasped her in 
her arms, and embraced her vehemently, ex¬ 
claiming : 

“Where have you been all this long time? I 
thought you, too, had given me up! That you 
didn’t care for me! That you were afraid. Oh, 
you dear, dear thing,” and she hugged her again. 
“I’ve been so dull, so wretched, so lonely with¬ 
out you.” 

“But why haven’t you been coming to school?” 
exclaimed Mary, feeling uneasy, she knew not 
why. 

“It’s all such bosh! Just because those chil¬ 
dren are a bit sick, my stepmother has been mew¬ 
ing me up here, won’t so much as let me go 


THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 


191 


outside the doors! They’d kill me or put me in 
prison, perhaps, if they saw me here.” 

“Put you in prison? But why, Isabel?” 

“Oh, because of the others being sick. She 
makes such a fuss just because it’s them. If it 
had been me, she’d have thought nothing about it. 
In fact, I believe I’ve got it already for I feel 
sick all over, but of course when I get it they’ll 
say it’s only tonsilitis and because it’s those 
others she says it’s diphtheria, and they put us 
all into quarantine.” 

“Diphtheria! quarantine!” almost shrieked 
Mary, shaking herself from Isabel’s encircling 
arms. “Then why didn’t you tell me at once? 
Why did you touch me? I don’t want to catch 
it!” and trembling with fright, she rushed away 
as quickly as her shaking limbs would allow her 
and hastened home. 

“Why, Mary! how quick you have been! Sure¬ 
ly you haven’t done Sister’s errand?” exclaimed 
Mrs. Harrison. 

“No!” stammered Mary. “I remember she told 
me afterwards I needn’t go.” 

“It’s a pity you didn’t think of it at first,” 
said her mother, looking anxious and puzzled. 

Mary’s nerves were overwrought and her tem¬ 
per, never of the best nowadays, burst out as 
she answered insolently: 

“Oh, of course you must always be suspecting 


192 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


me, always spying what I do! I’m sick of it!” 

“Mary,” exclaimed Mrs. Harrison in a shocked, 
hurt voice, “surely you cannot realize what you 
are saying and whom you are speaking to. I 
simply said it was a pity you had not thought 
of it sooner, because just after you had gone, Mr. 
Walsh came around with his automobile to take 
you all for a long drive, and I was sorry you 
had missed the treat. But now, dear, I have 
to run round to get some meat for supper, so I 
want you to mind baby until I come home,” and 
so saying, she hurried out while Mary stood 
dazed and miserable, not knowing what to do, 
until the baby, of whom she was really fond, 
began to cry. Running towards the cot she 
picked him up and began walking up and down 
with him, kissing and fondling him more than 
usual in her nervousness. A few months ago she 
could not have remained an hour without con¬ 
fessing all her wrong-doing to “mother,” but 
now the habit of deceit and mistrust had so 
grown upon her, that she felt as if nothing should 
ever persuade her to confide in her again. 

While they were at supper Mr. Harrison said 
sternly: “Mind, none of you children go near 
the Presscots’ house, for I hear they are all down 
with a bad form of diphtheria, and it is best to 
shun the very air about the place. You haven’t 
seen the girl for some days, have you, Mary?” 


THE FEUIT OF THE TREE 193 


“She hasn’t been coming to school,” answered 
the child, without looking up. 

“Of course not. They are all in quarantine. 
When I think of it, it’s a good thing for the Sis¬ 
ters she wasn’t the first to be down with it. They 
might have had to shut up the school or at least 
disinfected it.” 

Oh, why didn’t Mary confess her sin even then? 
Why did she go to bed that night with that dread¬ 
ful secret on her conscience? Why? Because, 
if a little girl allows a habit of deceit to grow 
upon her, it is the hardest thing in the world to 
break it, and sorrow and misfortune are sure to 
come from it. The next day the whole household 
was in consternation, for the darling baby was 
sick, sick unto death, and it was all his sister 
Mary’s fault. She realized it all now, now that 
it was too late and she thought she would die 
of shame and sorrow. At last, with tears and 
bitter remorse, she confessed her fault and after 
all, it was poor mother who was the first to for¬ 
give her, even to plead for her with her angry 
father. Oh! the misery of those next few days! 
It seemed almost a relief to Mary when she fell 
sick with the disease herself, so sick that her life 
was almost despaired of, and that for many days 
after she was out of danger they had to keep her 
quiet. When she was allowed to talk, she asked 
in a trembling voice: “Is darling baby better?” 


194 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


The poor mother’s eyes filled with tears, as 
she said in a broken voice: 

“Yes, dear, our darling baby is quite well now, 
he can never be sick or suffer again. Don’t cry 
so, Mary dear! for oh! we should not mourn for 
him. He is a little angel in Heaven praying for 
us all.” 

“Our darling baby, oh, I killed him! I killed 
him, mother!” sobbed Mary. “Can you ever, 
ever forgive me?” 

“You sinned, Mary, grievously, both against 
God and against your father, and the Sisters, 
and myself. You deceived us cruelly and re¬ 
member, we are told God hates a liar worse than 
a thief. But you have been terribly punished 
by God Himself and we can only hope that you 
will be a good, honest, truthful little girl in future 
and remember that when we who have charge of 
you forbid a thing, it is for your own good. As for 
our darling baby, it was God’s will, dearest, that 
he should be spared the struggle and sorrows of 
life. You did not mean to hurt him in any way, 
though by your sin you caused his death, poor 
little angel. But do not think that even that 
can make any difference to my love for you. 
There is nothing on earth so full of forgiveness 
as a mother’s heart and you will always find a 
true mother in me, my darling.” 


IX 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 

It was a very repentant, gentle, obedient little 
Mary that rose from her sick bed after her first 
great sorrow, and many were the good resolutions 
she took and the promises she made to her par¬ 
ents. She fully meant to keep them all, but she 
was like the rest of us, and after a time the bit¬ 
terness of her remorse wore away and the fervor 
of her good resolutions also. Still, Isabel’s evil in¬ 
fluence had been removed by the rather sudden de¬ 
parture of the Presscots soon after the outbreak of 
diphtheria, and Mary had been so touched by 
mother’s devotion to her during her sickness, 
and still more by her generous forgiveness of 
her having been the cause of their darling baby’s 
death, that for a time at least, she seemed to 
love and confide in her as of old, before she 
knew she was only her stepmother. She became 
her own bright, happy, loving self once more, 
took up her studies with renewed ardor and 
found in the cheery companionship of Donald 
and their group of little Catholic friends, es¬ 
pecially the Walshes and Grahams, a thousand 
195 


196 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


times more pleasure than she had had in the for¬ 
bidden intercourse with Isabel. 

Mrs. Harrison did not know how to thank 
God enough for this change in the little girl, 
and did her utmost to help the kind Sisters in 
training her in such true and solid piety, that 
she would be able to resist the natural fail¬ 
ings of her rather weak and pleasure-loving 
character. The girl became a Child of Mary, 
and a very regular and devout one, and she was 
quite one of the Sisters’ star pupils in every way 
until it was time for her to graduate. 

She was now seventeen, a tall, slight, beautiful 
girl with masses of wavy fair hair, dark blue 
eyes and a brilliantly clear complexion. Her 
step w r as light, her voice sweet, her laughter 
merry and unaffected, and it was little wonder 
that many of her brother’s friends were already 
much taken with pretty Mary Harrison. But 
there was one of them, who had been her devoted 
admirer ever since he was a little fellow, and 
that was Philip Walsh, wdio had grown into a 
very clever, capable and handsome young man. 
Even as a child, in spite of his quiet, almost shy 
manner, there had been a certain dignity about 
him and this had grown with him. He was at 
the head of most of the Catholic Young Men’s 
Confraternities, and indefatigable worker for the 
St. Vincent de Paul and Holy Name Societies, 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 


197 


and yet, at the same time, one of the ablest and 
most enthusiastic members of the social club, 
clever at acting, at reciting, at organizing enter¬ 
tainments of all kinds and a great favorite with 
every one. His father, though not exactly a 
wealthy man, was in a good position and after 
receiving a fine education, first at the Sisters, 
then with the Jesuit Fathers, the young man 
was now studying to become a pharmacist and 
was already assistant in one of the best drug 
stores of the city. It was no wonder, therefore, 
that the Harrisons were happy and proud of 
his attentions to Mary. 

But after Mary’s graduation, poor Mr. Har¬ 
rison made a great mistake which caused them 
many sorrows and anxieties. In spite of their 
straitened means, mother had wished Mary 
to take a year of post-graduate work in the 
Commercial Class at the convent, but her father, 
who had never finally joined the Church, and, 
therefore, still retained some of his Protestant 
notions, contended that, splendid as were the 
nuns in their teaching of most things, they could 
have no practical knowledge of business methods 
and finally decided that the girl should take 
a year’s training in a noted business college in 
town, and should begin by taking their summer 
course. She must meet all sorts of people in life, 


198 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


he argued, and was old enough and pious enough 
to have the courage of her opinions. 

The young people she met at the college were 
not bad, but too many of the girls were of the 
rather fast, vulgar type, and entirely taken up 
with boys, dress, and so-called pleasures of all 
kinds. At first all this shocked Mary, she held 
aloof from them and they laughed at her piety, 
her quiet ways and love of home. Then little 
by little she became accustomed to their folly 
and rather admired it, began to associate with 
them, join in their talk and foolish pleasures, 
and blush for her religion, which she concealed 
and neglected more and more. And along with 
her faith vanished her sense of duty and peace 
of mind. Then some of these new friends began 
to exclaim: 

“Oh, you must read this novel, Mary it is 
perfectly killing, and you can’t be a bit up to 
date if you don’t read the latest thing out,” and 
Mary began to read the sort of trash they en¬ 
joyed, and her morbid insatiable love for sen¬ 
sational literature sprang up worse than ever. 
She no longer cared for the wholesome books she 
could get from the convent library, but reveled 
in the paper-covered novels which she was 
ashamed of being seen with, and carefully hid 
when at home. More she read and more vitiated 
her taste became, so that she now pored with 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 


199 


pleasures over books that she would have thrown 
down in disgust a few weeks before. At best 
they were high flown, impossible tales of poor 
but beautiful girls persecuted by a cruel rela¬ 
tive, and finally liberated and raised to opulence 
and greatness by some lord or millionaire, and 
Mary’s foolish romantic mind was soon filled 
with day dreams of coming wealth and worldly 
success. She saw herself queening it in some 
lordly mansion, receiving the homage and ad¬ 
miration of society, spending countless thousands 
lavishly and so forth. No wonder that in the 
midst of these dreams of glory, the daily drudg¬ 
ery of housework, the petty economies of each 
day, the dull routine of a quiet life seemed all 
distasteful. Even Philip began to appear very 
uninteresting, for there was none of the dash¬ 
ing recklessness of the millionaire heroes of her 
novels about him. 

Little by little, she became listless, dissatis¬ 
fied, irritated once more, she neglected all her 
duties in order to shut herself up and pore over 
her exciting tales, she became rebellious and 
often insolent with her mother, who had once 
more taken, in her mind, the place of a cruel step¬ 
mother oppressing the beautiful girl. Poor 
mother was deeply distressed and once more 
threw herself with tears and supplications at 
the feet of her Eucharistic Lord, while Mr. Ear* 


200 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


rison and Donald were perfectly indignant at 
Mary’s behavior towards her, and Philip was not 
a little disturbed and grieved at the change in 
her manner. 

So things went on from bad to worse, Mary 
insisted that she was old enough to choose her 
own friends and go out where she liked, she was 
no longer a child and had a right to be inde¬ 
pendent she declared; and so she went to second- 
rate theatres and movies and dances with her 
new friends, and the Sisters noticed sorrowfully 
that she no longer kept up her obligations as 
a Child of Mary. Alas! the poison of that bad 
reading was beginning to eat into her very soul! 

One day she came home from commercial col¬ 
lege rather later than usual, and flew into a 
passion because a certain white dress of hers 
had not been washed and ironed, and she de¬ 
clared that she had nothing else to go out in 
that evening. 

“Fm sorry, Mary, dear,” answered her mother 
gently, “but I have not been well today and I 
had so much house cleaning to do that I couldn’t 
get round to the washing.” 

“Why couldn’t Connie have done it?” cried 
Mary angrily, “she often washes her own things!” 

“I don’t know why poor Connie should be ex¬ 
pected to do your washing, Mary,” answered 
mother. “She has no more time than you have, 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 


201 


yet she helps me ever so much in the house, so 
do your brothers and little Phoebe, while you 
have given up all home work of late. It is not 
fair to the others, dear.” 

“Oh! of course not!” sneered Mary, insolently. 
“Of course it is 7, the poor despised step-daughter, 
who ought to do all the scrubbing and washing 
and mending of the house, and be the servant 
of the family. But I’ve done it long enough. 
I’ve had enough of it and I’m not going to stand 
it any more or put up with . . .” 

She was stopped in this harangue which she 
thought so clever and which she had taken al¬ 
most word for word from one of her thrillingest 
and latest “yellow backs” by a stern cry of 
“Stop that, Mary!” from her father who now 
stood before her, white with anger. For a minute 
she flinched, then the two stood looking at each 
other, she wild and defiant, he stern in his in¬ 
dignation. At last he spoke in a quiet, con¬ 
strained voice: 

“You say you’ve had enough of this and so 
have I, my daughter. I am not only grieved, 
I am ashamed and disgusted at your ingratitude, 
your insolence, your deceit, and so is your own 
brother, Donald. I have been wondering at the 
cause of the deplorable change in you and this 
morning I explored your room. I no longer 
wonder. Grey-haired man as I am, I blush to 


202 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


think that any child of mine should have been 
reading the trash you have been feasting on. 
I told you when you were a child that this crav¬ 
ing for reading, if not properly guided, and con¬ 
trolled, was one of the most perniciously danger¬ 
ous things on earth, and its effect on you has 
proved it. As for your conduct to your loving 
and devoted mother, of late it has been simply 
disgraceful!” 

“She is not my mother,” stormed Mary tragic¬ 
ally. 

“She has ever had the heart of a mother 
towards you. She has saved and pinched and 
worked herself almost to death to give you an 
education, and clothing, and many pleasures and 
luxuries which we could ill afford, and which you 
were in no w T ay entitled to. By rights, you ought 
to have been earning your own living and even 
helping us by this time as your noble-hearted 
brother, Donald, has been doing for more than 
a year. If it hadn’t been for his help we couldn’t 
have given you this extra year at Commercial 
and I wish to goodness we hadn’t done it.” 

“Oh, of course, you have been set against me, 
you are all for the other children. . . .” 

“Mary! you know that isn’t true. Nobody 
has set me against you, least of all your mother, 
if that’s what you mean. Your own brother, 
Donald, did warn me that he knew you were 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 203 

reading books and frequenting people who were 
doing you no good.” 

“It was mean, unkind, cruel of him, it isn’t 
true!” cried Mary, “and my friends are just as 
good as his any day.” 

“It doesn’t seem like it,” answered Mr. Har¬ 
rison gravely. “In any case, I may now as well 
tell you, once for all, that I have not the means 
to support you in idleness and foolish pleasures, 
and that if you won’t do your share in helping 
in the house as do all our other children, you 
may go out and work for yourself, as hundreds 
of other girls have to do.” 

“I thought so! I was sure it would come to 
this,” shrieked Mary. “That woman has got you 
to turn your own daughter out of your house 
to . . .” 

“Nonsense, Mary! I am not turning you out 
of my house. I am simply telling you that if 
you wish to live in it you must do your share 
of the work and behave decently. I repeat it, 
decently , to its mistress. I’ve said it and I 
mean it. You can think over it.” 

After this painful scene, Mary rushed up to 
her room where she began weeping “hysterically” 
like her favorite heroines, hoping that some one 
would come to soothe and condole with her, but 
as nobody seemed to take any notice of this 
“wild grief,” she dried her tears and sat up to 


204 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


consider the situation. She was quivering with 
anger, still there was a tinge of pleasurable ex¬ 
citement in the affair. It was so romantic, so 
like a penny novel to be thus spurned from her 
father’s house! 

The result of her cogitations was that a few 
hours later, she went down to her father and 
told him tragically that she meant to leave “this 
roof where I’ve been made to feel I am not 
wanted,” and go to San Francisco to an old 
cousin, the only relative of her mother’s who 
had ever corresponded with them. She had ex¬ 
pected her father to storm and weep and expos¬ 
tulate, but to her surprise he took the matter per¬ 
fectly cool, saying: 

“You are perfectly at liberty to choose for 
yourself, as I told you just now, Mary. If you 
really wish to go, I will pay your railway fare, 
which is quite a small one as the journey is short, 
and after that, you must shift for yourself for 
you need expect no pecuniary help from me.” 

And the very next day Mary left the loving 
home where she had been so cared for and cher¬ 
ished, and went off to the great city. 

It is strange how grand and romantic things 
can be in cheap novels, and how fearfully unin¬ 
teresting and even unpleasant they often turn 
out to be in real life. Because Mary’s mother 
had had one rich aunt, the girl had concluded that 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 


205 


all her relatives must be wealthy, and she ex¬ 
pected to drive up to a stately mansion and be 
received by her cousin’s liveried servant in true 
“dime novel” style. Instead of that, the hack 
stopped at a dreary looking lodging house in 
a poor quarter of the town, and a sour-faced el¬ 
derly woman who proved to be Mrs. Turner her¬ 
self, opened the door and said coldly: 

“Oh, you’re the Harrison girl I had a telegram 
about. Your father says you wish to find work 
in San Francisco. Well, you'd better have stayed 
at home. Still, if you want a room I’ve one I 
can let you have for five dollars a month, as 
you’re a relative. Board extra, of course,” and 
leading Mary up a dark staircase she opened 
the door of a stuffy, dingy room, little bigger than 
a cupboard, as unlike home and as uninviting 
as anything could be. Mary’s heart sank within 
her, but she comforted herself by thinking that 
it wouldn’t be for long. She would soon get a 
good situation after which, of course, would come 
the grand marriage. 

The very next day, having got all the infor¬ 
mation she could from Mrs. Turner, she set out 
in search of work. But she had no certificates 
or recommendations, and there were hundreds 
of girls who had both and snapped up every 
available position. At last, when nearly reduced 
to starvation, Mary obtained a situation as sales- 


206 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


lady in a small department store, which belonged 
to a friend of Mrs. Turner’s. It certainly was 
fearfully unromantic, but it paid for her bread 
and butter and room. 


X 


SORROW TURNED TO JOY 

Weeks and months passed and still Mary had 
to continue in her uncongenial, ill-paid situation, 
for the simple reason that she could get no 
other. She earned barely enough to pay for her 
most dire necessities, her cousin was harsh and 
unsympathetic, she made few friends and those 
only of a humble kind, and her tiny room was 
dreary in the extreme. Again and again, she 
was tempted to beg her parents’ forgiveness and 
return to the old home life, which was luxurious 
compared to her present one, but her pride still 
kept her back. So to drown her heartache, and 
home-sickness, and vague feeling of remorse, she 
spent every minute she could in reading those 
vile novelettes, pinching on her very food to find 
money for them. Sometimes, but not always, 
alas! she had had the courage to go to Mass on 
Sunday, and at times she still prayed to Our Lady 
to help and protect her, but it was only by fits 
and starts that she even thought of it. She never 
approached the Sacraments now and her heart 
seemed turned to stone. And still, in spite of all 
207 


208 A MOTHER’S HEART 

she had gone through, she didn’t meet the million¬ 
aire hero! 

At last, one day, an elaborately dressed young 
man with wavy dark hair, “flashing black eyes,” 
a diamond ring, a carnation in his buttonhole, 
and a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, 
came in to buy some collars. True, he only spent 
a quarter, but Mary felt sure he must be a lord 
or something grand, for he was just the type 
of the heroes in her books. He returned several 
times, and one evening he finally asked her to 
go with him to the movies. Then, in the course 
of conversation, he gave her to understand that 
he was the son of one of the most important per¬ 
sonages in the First National Bank, and that his 
family was possessed of untold wealth. He also 
explained that the reason why he could not take 
her out oftener was that his people were so con¬ 
stantly giving great dinner parties and that they 
couldn’t bear him to be away on those occasions. 
She, on her side, gave a romantic account of a 
stately western home, from whence her father, 
a wealthy merchant, had driven her through the 
jealousy of a cruel step-mother. Both seemed 
much impressed with the other’s story, and for 
the next week or two Mr. Algernon continued 
to take Mary out whenever his pressing social 
functions allowed him to do so, and the silly 
girl dreamt of the time when he would intro- 


SORROW TURNED TO JOY 


209 


duce her to his family as his blushing bride, and 
she would preside at all these receptions. 

One day, to her great surprise, she met Philip 
in one of the crowded streets of the city and, 
after giving her news of her home people, he 
told her that he had come to San Francisco for 
a few weeks to help a cousin of his who owned 
one of the best known drug stores of the city. 
She listened to what he had to say in a con¬ 
descending way and then gave a high-flown ac¬ 
count of her own successful life, broadly hinting 
that there was a millionaire banker’s son dying 
to marry her. While she was speaking, Philip 
looked almost with consternation at her tawdry 
finery, her powdered and—was it deeply flushed 
(?) face, and her forced, affected manner, so 
unlike those of the sweet Mary he used to know. 
He received her information very coldly, almost 
with a mocking smile, she thought, and she re¬ 
sented it and cut him dead the next time she 
met him on the street. 

A few days later, Mr. Algernon Bliss Worth- 
ingham, as he called himself, invited her to come 
and take a ride with him on the following Mon¬ 
day morning. He would bring two of his father’s 
riding horses around at about nine o’clock, and 
they could enjoy a canter together until twelve, 
when he would have to join the family festivities. 
To tell the truth, Mary had never ridden mud 


210 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


and had no riding suit, but the prospect of sev¬ 
eral hours’ outing with Algernon was too delight¬ 
ful to be resisted, so she accepted effusively, and 
spent all her week’s salary on buying a suitable 
hat and material with which to make herself a 
riding suit. 

It was Saturday evening when she began it, 
and then she realized with dismay that the next 
day was Sunday and that the eventful Monday 
would be Christmas day! That was why he had 
spoken of family festivities! How strange! She 
had been living in such a dream that she had not 
realized how time w T as passing, and this was 
to be her first Christmas away from home— 
and the Sacraments! Well, she’d have to work 
on Sunday, but, of course, she wouldn’t miss 
Mass on Christmas morning, she’d have plenty 
of time to go to an early one and be back before 
Algernon came for her. But she found the rid¬ 
ing suit much more difficult to make than she 
had anticipated, and it was very late, in fact, 
Christmas morning before she threw herself 
down, fully dressed, on her hard bed, intending 
to get up quite early in the morning. When she 
awoke, however, she found, to her horror, that 
it was past eight and that she would have barely 
time to dress, so that she would have to miss 
Mass or put off her ride! Oh, she couldn’t do 
that! What would Algernon think? And she 


211 


SORROW TURNED TO JOY 

hadn’t even told him she was a Catholic, for 
she had heard him sneer at some people who 
were. And besides, she felt sure he meant to pro¬ 
pose during this ride. That was how heroes al¬ 
ways did in books, so she must miss Mass, it was 
a case of necessity, and she dressed with a beat¬ 
ing heart and an uneasy conscience. 

At nine, precisely, Algernon was at the door 
with the horses, and if Mary had known about 
such things she would have realized that the 
banker father did not appear to indulge in very 
fine steeds. But she was blissfully ignorant on 
the subject, so she mounted rather awkwardly, 
while glorying in the impression she must be 
making on all the roomers and neighbors, and 
they set out on their ride. To her delight she 
found that they would be passing by the drug 
store where Philip was, and she triumphed to 
think how jealous he would be to see her thus 
riding with a rich banker’s son! What if he 
were not looking, though? She must show off 
and attract attention, so with a boastful shout 
of “I’ll turn the corner first,” she set her horse 
at full gallop. 

In point of fact, she had lost control of him 
and could hardly keep on the saddle, and as 
his stable mate felt bound to keep up with him, 
they made such a clatter that people rushed out 
of their houses expecting to see a runaway. 


212 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


This was just what Mary wanted, and she was 
shrieking with laughter, when she realized that 
the corner they were about to turn was the very 
one her parish church stood upon. This seemed 
to unnerve her, and giving an unskillful twitch 
to the reins, she turned her mount abruptly just 
as they came to the deep and rather slippery 
gutter. The poor beast slipped, struggled to 
retain his footing, then fell heavily on his side, 
dashing Mary to the ground, while the second 
horse, before whose very feet they had fallen, 
stumbled and fell also. 

The young man, who was unhurt, was up in 
a minute, uttering a most inelegent and unaris- 
tocratic exclamation as he hurried towards the 
girl, who lay half-stunned beside the sidewalk, 
while the two horses scrambled to their feet 
again and stood meek and quiet as if waiting 
to be remounted. 

“Why in thunder did you attempt to cross 
that gutter at a gallop, round a corner, too?” 
growled Algernon, while roughly trying to pull 
Mary up again. “Here, hurry up, and mount 
again before we get a crowd around us!” 

“Oh, I can’t! I can’t!” wailed Mary, “I’ve hurt 
my knee, I know I have, and oh! look here!” she 
added, as great drops of blood began to trickle 
down her face from a bad gash in her forehead. 

“It is nothing, a mere scratch, you are mak- 


SORROW TURNED TO JOY 


213 


ing a scene over nothing. Confound you! can’t 
you make an effort?’ 7 he hissed savagely. 

“Here, Mary, let me help you,” said a well- 
known voice in a tone of protection and pro¬ 
prietorship, which struck like balm on poor 
Mary’s troubled heart. “Take your hands off 
her,” added Philip bluntly, “you don’t know 
how to treat a lady.” 

“What livery stable did you get these ’ere 
horses from?” inquired one of the bystanders 
who had taken them by the bridle. “I’ll take 
’em back for yer while you helps the lady, if 
you like.” 

“Oh, they’re not livery horses, they belong to 
his father, the banker,” gasped Mary, who had 
staggered to her feet and was leaning against 
Philip’s protecting shoulder. 

“His father, the banker! That’s a good ’un. 
Poor old cove, ’taint many horses as he owns. 
Why! I’ve known him for years, he’s janitor’s 
help at the First National. His horses! the 
banker! ha! ha!” 

“I’ll take them back to the stables myself,” 
muttered the young man, crimsoning. “I’m not 
wanted here,” and he hastily slunk away. Then, 
as Mary painfully made her way to the drug store 
with the help of Philip and a stranger from the 
crowd, she heard a man say: 

“I wonder how that chap got leave of absence 


214 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


from the Florence on a Christmas day? He’s 
one of the waiters there, ain’t he?” 

“Oh, just one of the under ones, and the help 
takes it in turn to go out for a few hours. There 
won’t be much doing till twelve,” answered the 
other. 

A waiter! and his father a janitor’s help! and 
this was the man for whom she’d slighted Philip, 
this was the dashing young millionaire who was 
to give her a life of luxury and pleasure, this 
heartless, ill-mannered boor. Poor Mary’s tears 
fell fast, more from mortification than pain, as 
she lay on a couch in the back room of the drug 
store and a doctor, who happened to be making 
a purchase, examined her injuries and shook his 
head as he said gravely: 

“I don’t think this cut in your head will be 
much. I’ll sew it up so that it may not leave 
a scar, but I’m afraid that sprain to your knee 
will be a slow affair. It will be weeks, if not 
months, before you can stand much or walk 
without a stick.” 

“Oh, but I’ll have to stand, else I’ll lose my 
situation,” cried Mary, “and I have no money 
left,” she added with a sob. 

“Haven’t you a home? parents? friends to 
look after you?” asked the doctor kindly. “Per¬ 
haps I had better send her to the hospital?” he 
added, turning to Philip. 


SORROW TURNED TO JOY 


215 


“Oh, no, doctor, I’m sure there is no need. 
The young lady has friends, and I will see to 
everything,” answered the young man firmly. 

Yes, good, kind Philip, he saw to everything. 
He phoned for an auto and took her back to her 
cousin’s, and after settling her comfortably, 
like the good Samaritan that he was, he left a 
sum of money with Mrs. Turner, promising to 
come again when the drug store closed, and 
bidding Mary keep up her courage, try and rest, 
and not fret over anything. 

After he had gone, Mrs. Turner came in and 
gave Mary a letter which had come for her that 
morning, saying rather crossly, “that she hoped 
to goodness the girl wouldn’t be laid up long, 
for she had no time to wait on people.” 

Poor Mary! how wretched she felt, how hum¬ 
bled, how hopeless! Oh! why had she ever left 
home and come to live in this cruel city? Why 
had she believed in that vulgar young waiter 
and made a fool of herself as she felt she had 
done that morning? She had missed Mass, and 
wasn’t it a judgment upon her that she had fallen, 
and been injured and humiliated at the very 
church door? With trembling fingers she opened 
the letter, a loving Christmas letter from mother, 
with a crisp bank note of five dollars. Oh! Mary 
realized with a pang what privations and hard 
work it must have cost her to save that amount, 


216 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


and her heart felt like to break with remorse 
when she thought how little she deserved it. 
Then she read the letter, so full of love, of anx¬ 
iety and prayers for her welfare, of affectionate 
messages from all at home. “And, dearest,” the 
letter ended, “always remember that if you are 
in trouble, if life isn’t what you hoped you could 
make it, if you are lonely, or want help of any 
kind, you will always find a loving welcome in 
your old home and a mother’s heart that is ever 
yearning for you and praying for you.” 

“Oh, mother, mother! I want you so badly! 
Oh, if I only could get back to you, mother,” 
Mary sobbed over and over again, as she covered 
the dear letter with her tears and kisses. The 
longing was so great that she tried to get up, 
but fell back, sick and dizzy, with a wretched 
feeling of helplessness. Once or twice her cousin 
came up with rather an aggrieved manner to in¬ 
quire if she needed anything and offer her some 
food, but the girl was too hurt by her lack of 
sympathy to accept anything. And as she lay 
there in hopeless misery for hour after hour, 
she seemed to see all the folly and ingratitude 
and sin of the past year. She thought with dis¬ 
gust of the trashy stories she had been allowing 
to influence her life, she realized how unjust and 
ungrateful she had been, with a bitter remorse 
that was worse than her physical pain. Then 


SORROW TURNED TO JOY 


217 


she remembered what day it was, and she prayed 
as she had perhaps never prayed before for help, 
and mercy, and forgiveness, and it seemed to 
her that Our Lady was stooping over her to com¬ 
fort her. 

In the middle of the afternoon, as she lay there 
weary with weeping and sorrowing, she heard 
steps and voices on the stairs, and her heart beat 
wildly, for one was the voice of Philip, and the 
other, oh—could it be? . . .mother! “Oh, mother! 
I wanted you so badly! Oh, forgive and 
take me back, mother!” she sobbed, as she clung 
passionately to Mrs. Harrison, who clasped her 
in her arms and pressed her to her loving heart 
as she murmured: 

“My own Mary, my darling child, don’t fret, 
don’t cry! Mother is here to take care of you 
and then take you home, my dearest. Mother’s 
love is as great as ever, and once more we’ll for¬ 
get the past, my Mary, and just look forward 
to a happy future, please God.” 

Nearly a year had passed since Mary’s ac¬ 
cident and return home, and a brighter, more 
energetic, home-loving and pious girl was not to 
be found anywhere. She had found a good situa¬ 
tion as a stenographer through Philip’s father, 
and she not only insisted on giving the greater 
part of her earnings towards household expenses, 
but in her free hours she helped with a will in 


218 


A MOTHER’S HEART 


all the work there was to do. Several times a 
week she managed to go to early Mass and Com¬ 
munion, and she was not only an attentive and 
devoted daughter, but the most loving and sym¬ 
pathetic sister. Connie was bubbling over with 
delight, for she was just engaged to Eugene, 
and Mary truly rejoiced in her sister’s happiness, 
though in private she shed many bitter tears, 
not of jealousy, but of regret for having, as she 
thought, forfeited forever the love of Philip. He 
was very kind to her during his constant visits 
to their house, but kind in a protective, brotherly 
way, very much like Donald’s, and poor Mary, 
who felt she had deserved to lose him, prayed 
ceaselessly that she might bear her disappoint¬ 
ment bravely and hide the wound in her heart 
from those whose love she now fully appreciated. 
She offered up this cross in penance for her past 
misdeeds and also for her father’s final conversion 
to the faith, and to the intense joy of the whole 
family that grace was finally granted them. 

On the very day of his reception into the 
Church, as they were walking home after the 
ceremony with hearts full of joy and thanks¬ 
giving, Philip joined them and after a while pro¬ 
posed that he and Mary should go round to his 
parents’ house to gather some roses with which 
to decorate the table for the dinner to which 
he had been invited. 


SORROW TURNED TO JOY 


219 


When they came back, both laden with blos¬ 
soms, Mary’s face was radiant with happiness, 
and tossing down her flowers she flung herself 
into Mrs. Harrison’s arms, exclaiming: “Oh, 
mother! God is so good to mo! I don’t know how 
to thank Him! I am so happy, so happy! for in 
spite of everything my Philip says he never loved 
and never will love any one but me, and he has 
asked me to become his wife!” 

“Oh, dearest!” murmured Mrs. Harrison, “our 
Blessed Lady has now granted both my most 
earnest prayers.” 

And words cannot tell the joy and thankfulness 
that were in that true mother’s heart. 


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